


A Study in Flannel

by melanoms



Series: Power Play [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anti-Possession Tattoos (Supernatural), Bickering, Castiel Has Powers (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Feelings, Demonic Possession, Demons, Drinking & Talking, Drunk Magic, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Jealous Dean Winchester, Memory Alteration, Mild Smut, Murder Mystery, Resurrection, Sassy John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Torture, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 70,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoms/pseuds/melanoms
Summary: The Angels haven't been in the UK for centuries. But that simple truth changes when Mycroft Holmes finds a body in his foyer: with the eyes scorched from the skull. Back in America, the Winchesters are dissatisfied with your new choice of companionship. They try to convince you to rejoin Team Free Will. But you and Sherlock are only interested in the answer to one question: who killed James Moriarty...and why?Superlock sequel to Power Play.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/You
Series: Power Play [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838776
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	1. Demonic Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _needed_ a Power Play x Supernatural crossover. This should be fun!
> 
> As always, I play fast and loose with canon and timelines. If you haven't read the original story of [Power Play](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633902/chapters/56721955), I recommend it! It'll give you background for our reader and her relationship with our beloved Sherlock characters!

Sauntering through the kitchen, Jim opened the refrigerator and furrowed his brow.

“On a diet?” 

He spun around and raised his eyebrows at the cowering couple, signature red lasers dancing across their bodies. After scanning the man up and down, he snickered.

“It’s not working.”

“What do you want?” the woman squeaked.

“Nothing you can give me.” Jim scowled.

He withdrew a knife from the knife block and examined it. Jim pricked the tip of his finger and wrinkled his nose. When he pointed the blade at his company for the evening, they flinched.

“These are  _ dull _ . You certainly don’t cook.” He stabbed the knife into their dining table. “No wonder he eats out so much.”

“Please,” she whimpered. “Let us, let us go.”

Jim pouted his lip and quivered. 

“Pl-pl-please let us go,” he mocked. He threw his head back and giggled.

“Are you going to...to hurt us?” the man dared to ask.

“Hurt you?” Jim wrinkled his nose. “How...predictable. No, I invited a friend of mine on this excursion, call it a study in ordinariness. But she turned me down. So instead of hurting you, I’m going to—”

But he rolled his eyes as  _ Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now _ started playing from his pocket. 

“One moment.” He winked before withdrawing his mobile. He drew in a pained breath. It had been quite some time since this particular caller’s song rang through.

“What do you want?” Jim answered.

“Why James. It’s been too long.”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something.” He contorted his face.

“I’ll keep it quick. May I borrow one of your pets?”

“After you returned the last one in less than pristine condition...mmmmm NO.”

“I’m only asking out of, call it professional courtesy. I promise to be good to her.”

Jim drew in a breath. “No. Not that one.”

“Oh, James. You’re missing out. Her original Hardy Boys need her.”

“Origi—”

“You didn’t think they were her first, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“I promise you some spectacular trouble.” 

Jim narrowed his eyes. “Tell me where you need her.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“And if you’re lying to me…”

“You’ll what? Send me to Hell?”

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

“Talk soon, James.”

In the back seat of his car, Jim made mocking faces and he scrolled through his contacts. Upon your name, he was just about to hit the call button. But, divine or demonic (he didn’t care which) intervention at play,  _ Hooked on a Feeling _ started playing as your caller ID showed up.

“Did you—”

“I need a favor,” you interrupted him.

“Favor?” Jim scoffed. “Finally tire of the baby angel?”

“Oh, King James. I did miss you so.”

“I’m already bored.” He started to hang up.

“Do you have any jobs back in the States?”

Jim narrowed his eyes and brought the phone back to his ear. “Why?”

“I can’t tell you. You’re going to find it  _ so ordinary. _ I’ll take care of someone in the US if you get me back there. I can’t just leave the country these days unless I’m getting dirt on you.”

He paused, enjoying the weighted silence.

“What do you say, Jim? You scratch my back and I’ll—”

“Oh you can do more than that, Riley. One condition.”

“Anything for you,” you mewled.

“Tell me why. The real reason.”

“I’m just...I’m a little homesick, okay?”

“Aw, Eve. Adorable. Perhaps you are more pet than playmate.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Seal it with a kiss?” 

“Just get me the info. You know my type.”

“Think of me when the life leaves his eyes.”

“Goodbye, Jim.”

Eight hours and thirty-seven minutes into your flight, you stood in the aisle and asked John for access to your seat. He furrowed his brow at the sweat on your neck and knots in your hair. Glancing between you and the empty seats next to him, he wrinkled his nose.

“Oh God no,” he groaned.

“What?” you scrambled into your seat and buckled your seatbelt. 

Safety first, after all.

“Did you two really...and in the toilet?”

“What?” you scoffed, voice cracking. “He just went to harass, harass the flight attendant.”

Sherlock stomped down the aisle and sharply gestured for you and John to move. The two of you shuffled out of your seats so the detective could reclaim his by the window.

Ruffling your hair, you shifted in your seat and avoided eye contact with both of them. You yanked the safety pamphlet from the pocket in front of you and bore your eyes into the woefully dull instructions.

“So Sherlock…” John leaned over. “What did you make of  _ this _ attendant?”

“Hm?” Sherlock blinked rapidly and snapped his gaze to John.

“The flight attendant? What did you deduce about her?” 

“Umm...enjoys...flying.”

John snickered. “You’re losing your touch. Or perhaps, it’s otherwise occupied.”

“Missed a button,” you whispered.

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes darted to you.

“You, um…” You glanced him up and down and returned the pamphlet to its pocket. “You look nice.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow before examining the skipped button at his sternum. With a grunt, he shifted in his seat to face the window and fumbled to remedy the mistake.

John dragged his hand down his face. “You two are disgusting.”

“He already revealed the affair with the newlyweds, ratted out the kid who’s been starting fires at home, and offended one of the flight attendants so much, he ‘accidentally’ spilled my club soda all over me. I had to occupy him  _ somehow _ .”

“To be fair…” John shrugged. “The attendant was aiming for him.”

Sherlock snickered. “It looked better on you.”

“There is not enough alcohol on this flight,” you groaned.

One hour and seventeen minutes later you landed in America. You dragged Sherlock through the airport as he scrutinized every person who walked by.

“Your parents already know you failed your studies. Might as well confess.” He eyed a university student.

“Sherlock!” You yanked his wrist as John retrieved your luggage from baggage claim.

On the shuttle to the rental car company, John jerked back in his seat as he looked out the window.

“Bloody hell! What is that?”

Eyes fluttering open, you leaned upright and glanced to the side.

“Oh, that’s Blucifer. Demon sculpture that killed its creator. You should see it at night. The eyes glow red.”

“Are we there yet?” Sherlock threw his head back and groaned.

You rolled your eyes. “Hey, genius boy. Does it look like we’ve reached our destination?” 

“Does it look like we’ve reached our destination?” he mimicked you.

“Children.” John dragged his hand down his face.

Three hours later, you arrived at your cabin. You tossed the rental car keys on an end table and set your bag to the floor.

“Here we are, boys. Our rental home for the next few weeks.”

John surveyed the sitting room, taking in the sight the amber wood that adorned the floor and walls. He set his duffle bag on the chestnut leather couch and examined the stone fireplace, chuckling at the antler chandelier.

“Do you hunt?” He raised an eyebrow at you.

You bit your lip and stared at him with wide eyes. “Um, of sorts.”

He opened his mouth to reply. But you pointed to the stairs.

“Take your pick of rooms. We’ll take what you don’t want.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Sherlock…” You spun around to consult the detective. But the front door remained open, allowing the scorching air to drift through.

You looked at John and shrugged. “He’s still passed out in the car. So as far as I’m concerned, you get first pick.”

John snickered as you went to retrieve Sherlock.

The next morning, John woke up to fresh coffee and breakfast on his nightstand. You returned to your bedroom and kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I hate you,” he grumbled.

“Good morning to you too.”

“It’s  _ not _ morning.”

“C’mon.” You shook his shoulder. “You’ll adjust faster if you get on a normal sleep schedule. I thought you’d be used to jetlag.”

“For a case, yes. But this is just, just frivolous.”

“John and I are going shooting in the backyard later. You can join us if you behave yourself.”

“If I beha—”

“I packed you some extra clothes because I have a feeling you won’t want to wear your usual. It gets pretty hot in the summer.”

“I don’t need you to manage me.” He rolled over with a huff.

You rolled your eyes and scooted off the bed.

In the kitchen, you traced the edges of the pine box with a variety of firearms inside. Eyeing the Sig, you called Jim.

“Enjoy your flight?” he hummed.

“Did you really have to shove us in coach?”

He giggled.

“Other than that…” You leaned your hip on the counter. “You treat me quite well.”

“Like my gifts?”

“I trust you already broke in and stole my gun?”

“I never considered babysitting. But this  _ is _ quite fun.”

“If you frame me for murder by the time I get back, you’re going to have to wait that much longer until we can play again.”

“Oh, Riley,” he scoffed. “Don’t be boring. Prison was a terrible look on you.”

You rolled your eyes and paced the kitchen.

“You chose a great mark.”

“He likes to exsanguinate his victims. Has a thing for brunettes. A little too messy for my taste. But you’ll enjoy him.”

“Just what did he do to you?”

“Tried to take what was mine.”

“Which was?”

“Irene Adler.”

He ended the call. You blinked a few times as you slid your mobile in your back pocket. Sherlock shuffled downstairs, scratching the back of his head. You threw your hands into your pockets and smiled at him.

“Don’t you look dashing.”

“Shut up.”

You crossed your arms and raised your eyebrows. “Alright, heartbreaker. You get ready. We’re going for a walk.”

He grumbled an incoherent retort and turned back around.

“Don’t take too long!” you called out. “We want to leave before it gets too hot.”

An increase of 5° C later, you hopped in the driver’s seat and ignited the engine. Next to you, Sherlock threw his head back and groaned.

“You’re not going to be comfortable dressed like that.” You shook your head as you backed out of your rental property. 

“Well, I’m certainly not wearing  _ that _ .” He looked back and wrinkled his nose at John.

“Hey!” John whined.

“I think you look great, John. It’s actually flattering to see my city stamped across someone’s chest.”

“You look like a tourist,” Sherlock complained.

“I  _ am _ a tourist.”

“And a handsome one at that.” You turned onto the main road.

Sherlock shifted in his seat. “This is, by far, your greatest crime against humanity.”

“Please, I can do worse than this.”

“Don’t,” John leaned forward, “encourage her.”

“What’s it going to take for you to stop complaining?” You raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“A ticket to London.”

“Sherlock…” You tightened your hand around the steering wheel. “This is important to me. Can you please at least pretend to be bearable?”

He crossed his arms and grumbled, positioning himself to stare out the window for the rest of the ride.

After seven kilometers on foot, you and John took mercy on Sherlock and left the national park. Back in the car, you wiped his sweat-stained forehead and looked at him with pleading eyes.

“I have a change of clothes for you in the back.”

“No.” He adjusted the knobs to blast the air conditioning.

You rolled your eyes then glanced at John in the backseat.

“Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Good.” You smirked. “I know a place.”

Six minutes later, you were at one of your favorite locations for lunch. Sitting in a booth across from Sherlock, you bounced your knee up and down as you stared down his untouched plate of strawberry shortcake. 

“Are you really not going to eat that?”

He scrutinized the antlers hanging over the fireplace. The walls were decorated with false logs to give the appearance of…

“A cabin. Why would we want to pretend we are inside a cabin? If I wanted woodland, I would have just, well, I would have stayed home.”

His eyes flickered from the sopping strawberry mess and back to you. 

“I didn’t even order that. You did. For me.”

You yanked the plate to your side of the table and pierced your fork into a particularly red berry. Shoving a bite in your mouth, you turned to John sitting next to you.

“Sure.” He shrugged and joined you in finishing off your dessert.

Wrinkling his nose at the weary booth, Sherlock shifted his weight. He clasped his hands and leaned over to place them on the table. But, eyeing the place where your plate of shortcake once stood, he furrowed his brow and leaned back. The detective, instead, settled for placing his palms to his knees.

“I’ve seen enough. We can go back home.”

You swallowed and glared at him. “Home is over four thousand miles away.”

“7603 kilometers.”

“I just wanted to come back for a little bit. I’ve been a bit...a bit homesick.”

“You were under house arrest for nine months. How can you be homesick?”

John gave him a stern look. “Sherlock.” 

“Sentiment.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Shifting in your seat to face John, you put your elbow on the table and rested your fingers in your hair.

“What did you think of the rock formations?”

“Never seen anything like them before. They’re quite—”

“Extraordinary. Yes, John. So easily fascinated by a conglomeration of sandstone and limestone. Enough to say it's the work of the Gods.”

Sherlock widened his eyes and mockingly shook his head.

“You are so cranky.” You picked at the remnants on your plate.

“It’s too HOT.”

Two men walked in to sit at the booth behind you. Your eyes remained transfixed on your plate, trying to spear a particularly slippery strawberry.

“You can say that again.” One of them pointed a finger gun at Sherlock.

Crossing his arms, Sherlock grumbled to himself and slumped in his seat. You looked him up and down.

“You’re the genius. Why the fuck did you wear a dark dress shirt and black slacks?”

“John may not be the most luminous of individuals. But for once, he’s actually looking like it too.”

“If anyone looks like a moron, it’s you for being dressed like that when it’s thirty bloody degrees outside,” John quipped.

Wiping your mouth with your napkin, you leaned back in your seat. 

“It is cooler in here. Even though the air conditioning is broken.”

“Can we just  _ leave _ ?” Sherlock groaned.

“Alright, my beautiful detective. We can—”

But your pupils blew wide open as you snapped your jaw shut. John furrowed his brow as he watched you eavesdrop on the conversion behind you.

“All I’m saying, is that last time we were here, Bella set us up and we got locked in a jail cell surrounded by demons. So sue me for wanting to enjoy myself a little after we just took out an entire vamp nest.”

“Dean, all  _ I _ was saying was you ordered everything on the menu. I think you might be getting a little...excessive.”

“It’s cheat day!”

“Yeah, like every day.”

“Exactly!”

Your eyes flashed danger.

“Oh, these fuckers.”

John started to turn around. You, however, shot him a look to force his gaze forward.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock tried to examine the rapid rate of your breath and lively bounce of your knee under the table. But before he could determine the threat level, you sprang from your seat and slid right into the other booth.

And right next to Dean Winchester.

You plucked the southern biscuit from his hand and took a bite.

“Well, call me apple pie.” His eyes blew wide open.

“I told you guys this place has the best biscuits and cornbread.” 

Sam furrowed his brow. 

“Eve? What? We came here  _ because _ you recommended it.”

“I’m just elated you finally listened to me.”

At their booth, John leaned forward and whispered to Sherlock.

“Who are they?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, staring at the back of your head as you wiggled in your new seat.

“The men who helped her after she almost died. She couldn’t have recovered alone.”

“What, what are you doing here?” Sam asked. “I thought you went off to, I thought you went to London.”

You waved your hand and scoffed. 

“Mission accomplished. Now I’m a convicted felon and moonlighting as a contractor for a criminal madman.”

“Following in our footsteps, aren’t you, Troublemaker?” Dean snickered.

“Hey, I took it one step further. You never let the FBI actually catch you. At least not for long”

Dean wrapped his arm around you and squeezed your shoulders. 

“I thought, I mean, we never thought we’d see you again.”

“This criminal madman…” Sam narrowed his eyes.

You shook your head. “Not a demon. Just insane.”

“Demon?” John’s eyes went wide. 

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean patted your shoulder. “Whadya say we take a few days off to catch up with our little troublemaker?”

Sam scoffed. “Since when were you one to take a vacation?”

“C’mon. Don’t you think we deserve a break after we just guillotined Barnabas Collins? We can live out the good ol’ days. Hustle some pool, get some poker going, listen in on the police scanner…”

He flashed a grin at you.

“Sorry, Winchester. But I have my own gig.”

“Anything we can help with?”

“Mmm, this requires a...lighter touch than you tend to come with.” 

You stroked Dean’s nose and tapped the tip. Putting his elbows on the table, he bit his lip and stared downward. He choked a laugh and scratched the back of his head.

“Just what kind of a job are you working?” Sam asked.

“People can be monsters too.”

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Right.”

Resting his arm on the back of the booth, John spun around and glared at you.

“You’re here to murd—”

“C’mon, boys,” you interrupted. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Hand wrapped around Dean’s wrist, you yanked him from the booth. Standing on Sherlock’s side of your original table, you propped your hip against the seat and crossed your arms.

“This is Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Hardy Boys, this is Sam and Dean Winchester. The men who saved my life.”

Sam shook John’s hand as they exchanged pleasantries. Sherlock wrapped his fingers around Dean’s palm, maintaining eye contact as he clamped down with a firm grip.

“So you’re hanging out with these clowns?” Dean chuckled.

“Dean!” 

You slid into the booth next to Sherlock and gestured for him to join you. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as you forced him to scoot over. Exchanging a smile, Sam claimed your former seat next to John. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Dean called out to the waitress. “We’ll be moving it over here.”

Carrying the first round of plates, she gave him a nod and placed course number one before him. Sherlock leaned over and whispered in your ear.

“I  _ thought  _ we were leaving.”

“S’not polite to gossip, Hiddleston.” Dean tore into his first course of food. “Unless you left your manners back across the pond.”

Sherlock looked at you with wide eyes. “How did you—”

“Yeah, how did you get tangled up with  _ our _ little troublemaker?” Dean gestured between Sherlock and John with his fork; a piece of potato protruding from the end.

“We, er, helped her with a case,” John replied.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Case? So you two are—” 

“Civilians,” you blurted.

“Civilians?” John and Sherlock protested.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but Sam beat him to it.

“And you’re, you’re a doctor?”

“An  _ army _ doctor, yes.”

“The best damn doctor there is!” You threw out your hands for dramatic effect. “He cut me open in his living room. And I lived to tell the tale.” 

“What? For fun?” Dean scoffed at Sherlock.

“No,” you corrected. “Like you, these two found me in quite a state and saved my life.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Who did you start a fight with this time?”

“An entire human trafficking operation,” Sherlock replied.

“Did you finally get that asshole?” Sam nodded to you.

“Took a deal with the devil. But yeah,” you laughed. “I, I got him.”

Dean stared at you with wide eyes. You shook your head furiously.

“Oh God! Not the literal, no. Just my—”

“Consulting criminal,” John interrupted.

“Um, yeah.” You shifted in your seat.

“Consultant?” Dean said through a bite of food. “We’re kinda consultants.”

Sam rolled his eyes and snickered.

With a groan, Sherlock rested his head on your shoulder. You scratched his scalp and looked at John.

“I think the heat really got to him.”

Dean sliced into his meatloaf as his eyes flickered between you and John.

“So  _ this  _ guy operated on you and he just what? Looks pretty and complains about the weather?”

Sherlock shot his head upright.

“I provided a blood transfusion, stopped an anthrax attack, saved her from multiple assassination attempts, spared her from the moronic hospital staff after  _ he _ shot her, stayed with her after a ketamine overdose, and negotiated her release from prison. Not to mention, I’m the one who actually gets to—”

“Alright, Sherlock,” you cut him off. “We’re all impressed by your big, beautiful brain. Rest up and I might let you wear one of my t-shirts to cool off.”

“You shot her?” Sam cocked an eyebrow at John.

“It was an accident!”

“Beat a serial killer in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em,” Sherlock grumbled as he placed his head back on your shoulder.

“You play poker, pretty boy?” Dean snickered.

“Dean.” You gave him a stern look. “You will lose.”

“Easy there, Troublemaker. I mean no offense.”

You could feel Sherlock’s shoulders shake as he chuckled to himself. 

“No, how could you mean any offense? Gradually drinking yourself to death every night. And if that doesn’t kill you, a heart attack surely will.”

“Oh, you’ve got no idea what’s killed me.”

“Brain death has clearly been taken care of.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort. But upon your glare, he snapped his jaw shut. Hearing the echo of Dean’s teeth slamming together, Sherlock snickered and sat upright.

“So well behaved,” he seethed. “It’s no wonder you weren’t able to get her in—”

“Enough, Sherlock!” you whined. “C’mon. Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

You pressed your leg into Dean’s in a feeble attempt to escape the booth. But he remained steadfast and looked you in the eyes.

“That ain’t happening, sweetheart.”

You threw your head back and groaned.

“I don’t know why you expected anything different,” Sam and John said in unison.

After exchanging a bewildered glance, they resumed studying the growing number of plates on the table.

“What do you want, Dean?” you groaned.

“I wanna teach Doctor Who over there a lesson.” He pointed an accusatory potato at Sherlock with the end of his fork.

“Oh yes!” Sherlock’s eyes widened with mockery. “Please, educate me with the capacity of your limited mind. What’s our first lesson? Best place to find two for one flannel?”

“Alright.” Dean threw his fork to his plate. “We’re taking this outside.”

He smacked his hands together. Placing his palms to the table, Dean started to rise to his feet. But he held his breath upon the grating sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“Exactly what she was asking for all along.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at you. “Was he this easy for you to manipulate all those months?” 

You mouthed ‘help’ to Sam and John across the table. But John only stifled a laugh. 

“Dean.” Sam tilted his head to the side.

“He started it!” his brother protested.

Sam gave him a pained look of confusion. “No, no, he did not.”

With a swallow, Dean slammed himself back to the booth. 

“Listen to your brother, David,” Sherlock chided. “He apparently received all the intellectual blessings your genetic pool had to offer.”

“My name is—”

John snickered. “Not like you know what it’s like to be the stupid brother, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot daggers at him with his eyes. 

“John!” you pleaded. “Not helping.”

“I never promised to be helpful.” He shrugged.

“Yeah,” Dean snipped. “Like the time you  _ shot _ her?”

“Again, an  _ accident _ !”

“Seriously, Troublemaker. How did you end up with these goons? You’re better off with us. You’re the only one who Crowley  _ liked _ to talk to anyway. We could use your help.”

“That...that last part is true,” Sam added. 

“Yes, she would love to be hidden away in whatever underground bunker you crawled out of.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Hey!” Dean slammed his elbow to the table and pointed a finger at him. “We practically brought her back from the dead thanks to that bunker and a little bit of mojo from a good friend. And  _ we _ weren’t the ones who put her in that condition in the first place.”

You dragged your hands down your face, the already minuscule space between Sherlock and Dean growing smaller by the second.

“What do you guys need help with?” you asked.

Sam’s eyes darted between John and Sherlock.

“Um, we can...we can tell you later.”

“Fine, whatever. I need some air.”

You nudged Dean in the thigh. He didn’t budge.

“Dean, move!”

Rolling his eyes, Dean exited his seat. You yanked Sherlock by his wrist to follow you. As you walked out of the restaurant, Dean gritted his teeth. He stared down the back of Sherlock’s head.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat. “What exactly do you guys do?”

John scratched his temple with his index finger. “Solve crimes and, um, blog about it.”

“You have a blog?”

Pulling up the website on his mobile, John slid it across the table for Sam to examine. He scrolled through a few articles, smirking at the post about the London anthrax attack.

“Dean, you’ve gotta take a look at this. These guys really know what they’re doing.”

“Sure thing, Sammy.” 

Still standing, Dean crossed his arms and watched you and Sherlock through the restaurant window.

Outside, you threw open the boot of the rental car. Rummaging through your duffle bag, you withdrew a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt; the only one of yours that would loosely fit Sherlock. You turned it inside out and handed it to him.

“Here, you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Forgive me,” he said.

“What?”

“I, I’m sorry.”

“I expect you to be a dick. Just put this on. You’ll feel better when you cool off.”

“No, not for…” Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed. He met your gaze with caution. “More often than not you are in danger because of your rash behavior.”

Rolling your eyes, you started to close the boot. But Sherlock hastened his apology.

“But there are, there have been multiple occasions where your safety was compromised as a direct result of John’s...his actions.”

“You’re apologizing for John?”

“Call me the bigger person.”

You scoffed, inspiring the corner of his lip to upturn in the slightest smirk. Still holding onto the t-shirt, you wrapped your hands around his neck and smiled.

“I’m so in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, you’ve expressed on multiple occasions.”

“I’m safe with you...and John. You know that. I know that.”

“Of course...I do.”

“Good.” You raised your eyebrows. “Now what are the chances of me getting you in this shirt?”

“None.”

“I deduced that much.”

You stared at the detective as the clouds shielded you from the scorching sun. After a swallow, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you.

“Did you ever…”

“Ew, no.” You recoiled from him. “They’re like brothers to me.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“If Mycroft looked at me like he looks at you, our parents would have been quite concerned.”

“Yes, because it would have implied he had any fondness for you.”

You tossed the shirt back in the boot.

“I’m not curious about sex,” Sherlock said.

“You most certainly don’t have to be.”

“No.” He drew in a breath. “I’m...you don’t need to feign ignorance.” 

“I’m not lying,” you stammered.

“Not to me.”

“Just what are you implying?”

“Surely, your skills of deductive reasoning aren’t that dull.”

“Flattering as always, my brilliant detective.”

You stared at Sherlock as the weight of unspoken words clung to the air. But, feeling an additional presence, Sherlock turned around to relieve John of any conversation with the younger Winchester.

The doctor wasn’t ready to know the truth about what goes bump in the night.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean approached you as you slammed the boot of your rental car closed. 

“So...this guy?” He clicked his tongue as he pointed backward with this thumb.

You crossed your arms and leaned into one hip. “What about him, Dean?”

“He taking care of you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“No, sometimes you do, sweetheart. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I just want to make sure you’ve got the right kind of help.”

You shifted your weight as you stared at a curious piece of gravel. Dean drew in a breath and tried to fixate on the same spot that so easily captured your attention.

“Do they know?” he asked.

“He probably does. I'm sure his brother told him.”

“The smarter brother?”

“You would hate him.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

You sucked in a breath and looked into his eyes.

“Do you really need my help?”

“Nah, you know us. We’ve got this.”

“You could have called.”

“We did,” Dean replied. “You never answered and eventually the line went dead. We thought you were too.”

You crossed your arms and shook your head.

“I thought I was going to be dead within six months of getting to London. So I didn’t, I didn’t want to burden you.”

“We thought so too.”

“Then why did you let me leave?”

“C’mon, Troublemaker.” Dean outstretched his hands. “Was there anything we could have said to make you stay?”

You scoffed and shook your head.

“I meant to call you. It just got longer and longer and I…”

“Got sick of me playing fake detective?”

“Oh, he’s not a real detective either.”

“Troublemaker...what are you even doing with this guy? Other than…”

“Dean.” 

With a hard swallow, you held his gaze for a moment. But after a pained breath, you held out your hand.

“Give me your phone.”

“My pick-up lines are really going downhill, aren’t they?” 

He placed his mobile in your palm. You entered his passcode and created a contact with your new number. Drawing in an inhale, you handed it back to him with a sad smile.

“If you need anything, call.”

“Will you actually answer?”

“Well, with the time difference, maybe. But I will call you back. As long as you don’t give my number to Crowley. I don’t think I can handle another one.”

“Really not a demon?”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s really just that insane. I promise you. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew Rowena.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Dean…”

“I know. I know you never told us the whole story about the guy who attacked you. But that’s, that’s okay. I’m just glad you got the son of a bitch and maybe...maybe one day you will tell me, tell us.”

With a hard swallow, you glanced to the side. 

“We should, um, we should get back inside.”

“Yeah, Sam might want to start a blog at any moment.”

You chuckled and started your return to the restaurant.

“Don’t you already have books about you?”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt for us to control the narrative for once. But only if Sam writes. If I’m staring at a laptop screen, it’s certainly not to...y’know.”

You held the door open for him and waved him inside.

“You’re disgusting.”

He paused at the threshold and looked into your eyes. 

“You’ll reach out if you need us?”

“I’m not going to nee—”

“Promise me.” He tilted his head to the side. “Please.”

“I, I promise, Dean. I will.”

He gave you a curt nod before entering the restaurant.

The next twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds felt like an eternity. But eventually, all food was consumed and conversation pitifully ended.

After a round of hugs and begrudgingly shook hands, Sam and Dean made their way back to the car.

“You should have told her,” Sam said as he swung the door open.

Dean slid in the driver’s seat.

“That Crowley wants to braid friendship bracelets? Didn’t come up.”

“Dean.” Sam looked at his brother. “Things might have been different. She might not have le—”

In protest, Dean commanded the engine to life. He tore onto the road to head straight to Kansas. Luckily, they weren’t that far out.

“She was always going to leave, Sam. She had to get that CIA agent or whoever he was.”

“Yeah, with the help of a blogger and a fake detective.”

“I thought you were so impressed with them? You were practically drooling.”

“For her? I mean, you saw the guy. He barely looks like he could lift forty pounds.”

“Doesn’t need to, Sammy. He gets the bad guys with the power of his mind.”

Sam chuckled. “I knew you were upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Why won’t you just admit it?”

Dean pulled over and glared at him. “There’s nothing to admit. Now will you just drop it?”

“But she replaced us, Dean! Without a word. She’s been alive this whole time and never once reached out. How can you  _ not _ be upset?”

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Dean glanced down and sucked in a breath. He let his gaze return to his brother.

“Now, was that so hard to admit?” Dean asked.

“Dean, this isn’t abou—”

“She was never meant to be with us, Sam!”

Sam leaned back, surprised by his brother's abruptness. Dean closed his eyes and shook his head.

“And the sooner you can admit that, the sooner we move on and figure out how to get rid of the Mark. Because I’m tired of giving this thing any more real estate on me. So will you just  _ drop it _ ?”

“Alright, Dean. I’m, I’m done. Consider it dropped.”

“Good. Let’s hope Crowley found a place to hide the blade. Because I am so  _ sick  _ of losing.”

That night, you bolted upright in bed with a gasp. Room glowing orange from the lamp on the nightstand, you reached for your gun. But it was absent. 

Your eyes darted between Sherlock, who mysteriously remained asleep, and the figure across from you.

Crowley stepped forward and raised his eyebrows.

“Hello, m'eudail. It’s time that we talked.”


	2. Bite Me

Your eyes fluttered open to darkness.

Sucking a breath, you delicately placed your hands to the mattress and peeled your body from the plush surface. You held your breath as you tiptoed to the door. But your body froze at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

“You’re not going alone,” he grumbled.

“Bathroom. I really don’t think you want to be a part of this.”

He slumped upright and yawned.

“Your lying is getting worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “He bleeds them out while he assaults them. I’m not letting this asshole live another day.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t go. I said you are not going alone.” 

Sherlock popped out of bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. You squinted in the harshness of the light.

“I think I can handle a serial killer just fine. It’s kinda my thing.”

“This is not a debate.” He threw on a shirt. “But if you want to make it one, you’ll lose. Save yourself the humiliation and let’s go.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. He scrutinized his watch.

“Why is it always three in the morning with you?” 

“It’s kept my secrets well enough. Why trust another hour?”

You swiped your gun from the nightstand and led Sherlock to the rental car. Following the address that Jim provided for you, you parked a few houses down from the killer’s.

You leaned over and wrapped your hand along the side of Sherlock’s face. 

“It’s the only way I could come back here.”

“Why don’t you just let Mycroft take care of your record?”

“I’d rather be indebted to Jim Moriarty than your brother.”

You blessed him with a kiss before smirking at him.

“Now let’s go catch a serial killer.”

“Murder,” he corrected.

You shrugged and opened the door. “I mean, you don’t have to kill anyone.”

With Sherlock by your side, you prowled the house for the easiest point of entry. You crept onto the back porch. But when your gloved hands touched the handle, your pupils blew wide when you realized…

“Sherlock, the door’s unlocked.”

You turned to look at him when a sharp pain pricked your neck. Wincing, you furrowed your brow at Sherlock as he smacked his neck to reveal a dart that punctured his flesh.

“Oh shit,” you whispered.

Before the world went dark.

You squeezed your eyes tighter and sucked in a breath at the tension in your shoulders. With a groan, you leaned your head backward and glanced at Sherlock, who was also tied to a maple dining chair.

“You know, I always cover my tracks.” Your captor examined your gun.

“Apparently not well enough,” you grumbled.

Sherlock's eyes darted to you as he jerked his shoulders back and forth. Your nostrils flared as you stared down the serial killer.

“Name’s Brennan Johnson,” he said. “Not that you hunters ever seem to care.”

“Hunters?” You furrowed your brow. “Oh, fuck.”

“I always lurk in the shadow of rowdy nests. When those other two took them out, I thought it was time to relocate once again. Yet, you were clever enough to find me before I had the chance.”

Brennan leaned forward and inhaled the scent of your hair. Squinting, you leaned back and whined softly. He reveled in your displeasure.

“Too bad you weren’t clever enough to ambush me during the day.”

He bolted upright and rubbed his palms together. Your eyes flickered to Sherlock before capturing the attention of the monster.

“He’s not your type. Let him go.”

“Neither are you. Too mouthy for my taste. But who am I to pass up free delivery?”

Brennan shrugged. He set your gun on the dining table and strutted back to you. Waving a finger, he sucked in a breath.

“About a hundred and twenty years ago, I drank a cupid. Total accident. But ever since then, I could _smell_ and _taste_ the emotion from people.” 

He wafted his hand through the air. “And you know what my favorite is?”

“Can’t be arousal because you are one ugly fucker,” you spat.

He struck you across the face, hissing an inhale at the drop of blood that seeped through your cheek. After years of practice, he clenched his teeth; waiting for just the right moment to claim his meal.

“Heartbreak,” he sneered. “Normally I can sense whose feelings are stronger. So when I get a couple, I eat the lesser attached of the two before bleeding out the heartbroken lover for weeks. But with you two…”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I can’t quite decide who to snack on first.”

You scoffed. “Your feel-o-meter must be off. Because I couldn’t care less about him. He’s good for sex and not much else.”

“Nice try.” Brennan breathed in your scent. “But your heart betrays you. I look forward to the moment it stops pumping this sweet…”

His fangs descended right next to your neck. Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open; having only heard reassurances that monsters were no issue back home.

“Sherlock!” You broke his trance. 

He snapped the final fiber of his binding and sprang to his feet. Grabbing the chair, he struck the vampire across the face. The beast stumbled backward and growled.

Sherlock released the ropes around your wrist and you burst free. He leaned for the gun as Brennan scrambled to his feet. But you yanked on his wrist and bolted to the door.

“It won’t work!” you shouted; running full steam ahead.

Lungs on fire with fear, you threw open the door to the rental car. But you patted your pockets three times each only to realize you didn’t have the keys.

“SHIT!” 

You scrambled to hot wire the vehicle. But, a newer model, you couldn’t find a point of entry.

“I hate to distract you,” Sherlock panted. “But you might want to hurry it up.”

He pressed his back against the seat as you threw your hands into your hair.

“Sherlock! Help me find something to take off its head!”

You tried to lock the doors. But Brennan already rigged the car to taunt you. The doors refused to secure their place.

Sherlock threw open the glove compartment. But unless you were going to slice through the vampire’s neck with the car’s user manual, you were completely fucked.

“We have to run.” You stared at him with wide eyes.

But his gaze was focused forward. “Too late.”

Full on fangs, Brennan narrowed the distance between you. He reached for the driver’s side door. Stamping your boot to the floor, you held onto the handle with all your strength. 

“Sherlock! GET OUT!”

Brennan bared his teeth and hissed. But eyeing Sherlock on the other side, he released his hands from your door. The vampire reached for the more accessible door to the back seat. 

You swung your door open and kicked with all your might, slamming the metal into the monster’s body. Brennan bounced backward upon impact. 

“OUT!” You pointed to Sherlock’s door and he started scrambling out of the vehicle.

You clamored into the passenger seat. But the vampire, grateful for your timing, grabbed onto your ankle. He started dragging you out of the car as you clawed the seats, peeling the faux leather under your nails.

“I have survived a sex dream with Jim Moriarty!” you shrieked. “I am not going as a blood bag to a fucking vamp!”

But you flinched at the feeling of droplets splattering across your back as the vampire was executed with a clean slice through the neck. 

His grip went limp and you spun around with wide eyes. Panting, your gaze drifted from the severed head to the disgusted face of Dean Winchester.

“Told ya, sweetheart.” He glared at Sherlock. “You need help. The _right_ kind of help.”

In the backseat of Baby, you stared out the window as Dean drove you, Sherlock, and Sam back to your cabin. 

“Just what the hell were you thinking going there at night?” Dean barked.

You gritted your teeth and slammed your eyes closed.

“And going in there with a gun?” He threw his hand in the air. “Did you seriously learn nothing in your time with us? So stu—”

“Dean.” Sam glared at him.

“Some frickin' genius he is. Doesn’t even know—”

“I was fucking set up, Dean! I didn’t know he was a vampire. Of course I would have bought a machete if I did.”

“ _Bought_ a machete? What the hell are doing running around without your gear?”

“I kill serial killers and sadists these days. HUMAN BEINGS!”

“You _know_ what’s out there! What happened to everything we gave you? The silver bullets? The holy oil?”

“I couldn’t exactly bring them on a plane with me.” You crossed your arms and threw your back to the seat. “I shipped them to a storage facility in London. Only went back to grab a few...other items recently. Since I’ve been busy otherwise.”

“Merlin is pretty quiet over there. Don’t have any genius comebacks now that we saved your ass?”

“DEAN!” you shrieked. “LAY OFF HIM!”

“Yeah, yeah, because you’re taking care of that.”

“Dean, shut up,” Sam snapped.

Outside your cabin, Dean stopped the car. He jabbed a thumb out the window.

“Out.”

“With pleasure,” you seethed.

“Not you.” He turned around and bore his eyes into you. 

“Goodbye, Dean.” 

You leaped out the vehicle and slammed the door closed. Sherlock hobbled toward you. You dashed to his side and grabbed his hands. The tremors softened with your touch.

“Are you hurt?” You looked at him with concern overflowing from your expression.

“No. I just, I never...”

“It’ll be okay. You’ll, you’ll be okay. I promise you.”

Dean marched over with Sam right behind him. You gritted your teeth and glared at him before redirecting your focus to Sherlock.

“Go inside.”

His grip tightened around your hands. 

“I’ll be right in,” you whispered. “I’m sure John will wake up with all the shouting.”

With a hard swallow, Sherlock shook out his hands and crept back to the cabin. You spun around and balled your hands into fists as Dean approached you.

“You’re coming back with us,” he demanded.

“No, I am not.”

“Because of _him_? The guy is absolutely usele—”

You punched him with a clean left hook to the jaw.

Dean shook out his face and narrowed his eyes. He scoffed at the bruising on your face.

“Want us to match?” He pointed between your cheeks. “Because you and I have more in common than—”

“DEAN!” You threw out your hands. “LEAVE. NOW.”

“He can’t keep you safe.” He jabbed a finger at the door.

“I am DONE with your white savior, chauvinist shit! I don’t want a HERO! He’s my friend. My best friend!”

You yanked out your phone and dialed Jim. He answered on the second ring.

“Thought you’d be—”

“If you _ever_ involve me with this bullshit again, I can promise you Jim fucking Moriarty that you will be the next killer on my hitlist. And I won’t make it last.”

“You’re cute when you threaten me.”

“How’s this for a threat, you desolate piece of shit? If you so much as _think_ about working with Crowley, Rowena, or any other psycho supernatural beings you call boss, I will stab an angel blade through my brain and you can just fucking deal with being the reclusive genius who needs to torture people in order to ignore the haunting loneliness that plagues you with every one of your miserable fucking breaths.”

Silence.

“I will _never_ forgive you for this,” you spat. 

You slammed your phone to the dirt and crushed it under your boot. 

Sam held his breath and tugged on Dean’s elbow.

“Dean, we’re done here.”

“Not unless she’s in the backseat.” He glared at you. “I will tie you up and bring you back. So help me, God.”

Breath heaving, you looked at Sam and mouthed ‘I’m sorry.’

“Dean, I don’t want to be with you. You’d think your dumbass could have pieced that together considering the fact that I left you once. But apparently your need to be the guy who saves the world overpowers your ability to use your fucking brain. I don’t WANT you. I never have.”

“Bullshit.”

“Stop pretending there’s some cosmic connection between us. You’re a drama queen!”

“You and I both know there was something you weren’t telling me when you left.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“Stop trying to distract me.”

“Dean, I’m done. I am so done with this conversation. I am done with you. If you want answers, ask your fucking angel.”

You turned on your heel to stomp to the cabin. But you came nose to nose with Crowley instead.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you spat.

“Now this is exactly the opposite of what we talked about, m'eudail.”

You clenched your teeth and swallowed. Dean braced himself for the oncoming explosion. But you held your breath and shook your head.

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

You strode inside and gently closed the door.

Dean glared at Crowley and gestured to the cabin. “What the hell did you say to her?”

But the King of Hell was gone.

Inside, you sat on the couch next to Sherlock and rested your hand on his knee. He nursed a glass of scotch. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, John offered you one. But you shook your head and swiped the bottle from next to him.

After a generous gulp, you slammed the bottle to the table and drew in a breath.

“I am so sorry.” You traced the side of Sherlock’s face.

“I only ever heard, I only heard stories. I didn’t think...think any of it was real. They were all extinct.”

“What the hell happened?” John asked. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“John…I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, we just need to get some fucking sleep.”

“Okay.” John narrowed his eyes at you.

“But I need you to do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Christo,” you coughed. 

“What?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

You sprang to your feet and entered the kitchen. Scrambling through the drawers, you found a permanent marker and returned to the couch. You outstretched your hand and raised your eyebrows.

When John placed his fingers over yours, you started drawing. He furrowed his brow at the curious markings.

“What is this?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow.”

When you completed the anti-possession symbol, you looked him in the eyes. 

“Under no circumstances are you to let anything happen to this until I say so. You’re both getting tattoos tomorrow.”

“Tattoos? What the hell is going on?”

“John.” You closed your eyes and sucked in a breath. “Promise me.”

“I, I promise.”

“Go upstairs,” your voice cracked. “I’ll stay here with him.”

With an expression of equal sorrow and confusion, John gave you a nod and followed your instructions. You set aside Sherlock’s glass and took his hand in yours, beginning your doodle with the utmost devotion.

Sherlock watched you draw and furrowed his brow.

“He was right.”

“That we have matching faces? I clocked him a new one.”

“I can’t keep you safe.”

“That’s not your job.” 

You threw the lid on the marker and tossed it aside. Placing your hand on the side of his face, you redirected his gaze to you.

“You are the love of my life and I am so sorry that I put you in danger.”

“And I—”

You rose to your feet and started drawing on the walls to banish unsolicited visits from angels and demons alike. When you reached the window, you drew in a breath and slammed the curtains closed; ignoring the Impala haunting the yard.

Retreating to the couch, you laid down and rested your head in Sherlock’s lap. He spent the rest of the night watching you sleep; unable to rid his mind of the piercing sound of Dean Winchester’s voice.

By morning, Castiel’s answerphone was full.

And you enjoyed a full night’s rest without any demonic visitation in your dreams.


	3. Tatted Up, Down, and All Around

“A vampire? Is this another prank?” John laughed. “Next, you’re going to tell me that werewolves and the tooth fairy are real.”

You drew in a breath. “No, John. Just the—”

“And demonic possession? You’re saying  _ this  _ will keep the demons out?” He pointed to the symbol you drew on his hand. “I’m sorry, but I’m already full of them.”

“This isn’t, this isn’t a joke, John.” Sherlock glanced down. “She’s not lying.”

“Now you’re both in on it? I thought you didn’t like pranks?” John furrowed his brow at you.

“I don’t. Which is why you should know that—”

“You really went all out with this. They’re going to charge you for drawing all over the walls.”

You exchanged a glance with Sherlock. Putting his hands on his hips, John paced the room and snickered at your warding. 

“Was this to trick me into getting a tattoo?”

“Not just you.” You raised your eyebrows.

“If you wanted matching tattoos, you could have just asked.” He shrugged. “Although it’s an odd choice in design.”

You opened your mouth to speak. But Sherlock cut you off.

“Yes, John. That’s exactly what she wants. This was an elaborate ruse to talk us all into getting matching tattoos. Now are you coming with?”

“Of course. I’m not missing out on you getting inked up.”

“Great.” You rolled your eyes.

Sherlock turned to you. But he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Holding up a finger, you clenched your jaw and stomped through the sitting room.

“I told you—”

You swung the door open. But you sucked in a breath to see that it was not Dean Winchester on your front porch.

“Mrs. Eve Riley?” The courier held up a styrofoam box.

“Yes,” you groaned, swiping his clipboard to scribble a signature.

_ James Moriarty. _

You exchanged the paperwork and package, glaring at Dean before you closed the door. Strutting to the refrigerator, you shoved the box inside.

“Sherlock.” You walked back to him. “What should I do with that?”

“Animals could take care of it?”

“I still think that’s a bit risky.”

“Hold up.” John’s eyes flickered between you. “What’s in the box?”

“You don’t want to know,” you and the detective replied.

“This is another one of your jokes, isn’t it? Got a special something for the two of you that you don’t want me eating. Well, I can catch your lies much better now.”

You looked at Sherlock but he only shrugged in reply. 

John marched over to the fridge. He slammed the box to the counter and peered inside.

“OH MY G—”

He threw the lid back.

“Short blonde hair? Huge nose?” you called out.

“Yup.” John squeezed his eyes shut.

“Clint’s third biggest client.” You raised your eyebrows at Sherlock. “Liked to turn them into human puppets.”

The box started rattling to  _ Under Pressure _ .

“Don’t answer.” You glared at John.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You crossed your arms and looked at Sherlock.

“You were saying?”

“I’ll wear his shirt.”

“Who’s what?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“The one item you retrieved from that death trap storage unit.”

You gulped. Sherlock smirked back.

“I won’t wear it inside out.”

“You’re not even jealous.”

“Nothing to be jealous of.”

“You’re just antagonizing him.”

Sherlock flashed you a haunting smile. You threw your palm to your forehead and groaned. 

“Wear your regular clothes.”

Sticking out his tongue, John returned to the sitting room. He shook out his hands and shuddered, even though the killer was far more repulsive alive than dead.

“What are we going to do with that?” John asked. “We don’t have our usual...disposal methods.” 

“We’ll figure something out.” You rolled your eyes. “Get us a car?”

“Sure.” John furrowed his brow. He withdrew his mobile and glanced at you.

“Broke mine and we had to turn off his.” You nodded to Sherlock. “Jim’s a bit clingy right now.”

“Why not me?” John frowned.

You gestured to the kitchen. “Why not a severed head? He tends to escalate.”

“Right…” John’s eyes flickered to the screen. “Car will be here in two minutes.”

“Splendid.”

You threw open the front door and marched into the yard. Crossing your arms, you drew in a breath. John and Sherlock stood next to you.

Dean hung his arm over the open window.

“Need a ride?”

“Offering me the driver’s seat?” you sang.

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

“If you want a couch, Sam, we’ve got one.”

Furrowing his brow, Sam glanced at Dean. But his brother glared at him.

“I’m...I’m good. Thanks.”

Your car arrived and you swung the passenger door open. 

“If you change your mind.” You winked at Sam.

Once you, Sherlock, and John were inside the car, John cleared his throat and leaned forward.

“I take it we’re heading home soon?”

“The moment I can open my laptop without Jim taking it over with a chat room, yes. I would love to exchange our plane tickets.”

“You could always, um, talk to him.” John shrugged.

You swiveled backward to look at Sherlock.

“No, John. Playtime’s over.”

“He’s only going to—”

But John groaned when his mobile started ringing. He wrinkled his nose at the unknown caller ID.

“Why do you both get his number?”

“Of all the things, are you  _ really _ jealous of that?” you laughed.

“No...it’s just that…”

You reached back and plucked the mobile from his hand. Then promptly chucked it out the window. 

“Great. How are we supposed to get back?” John asked.

You opened your mouth to reply. But Sherlock leaned forward and tapped your driver on the shoulder. 

“How much do you make in a day?”

“Um, ‘bout $300,” he replied. “On a good day. People aren’t too active here.”

“This should cover it.” He passed a wad of bills to the front seat.

“This isn’t even American money.”

“Pound is stronger than the dollar. You’re getting a bargain.”

You rolled your eyes and snatched the money from the driver, exchanging it for five one-hundred dollar bills. You flipped through Sherlock’s cash and scoffed.

“Sherlock, this isn’t even two hundred bucks.”

“He didn’t have to know that.”

Before the driver could pocket your cash, you swiped it back from him.

“Hey!” he whined.

“And you weren’t going to just take this and leave us?”

“Maybe...but he tried to stiff me!”

“Call us even. We’ll walk back.”

With a sigh, your driver stopped in front of the tattoo parlor. Dean turned off the engine right behind you. 

You exited the car and glared at him.

“We’re leaving tomorrow. Might as well go home and let your brother sleep in a real bed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“And what brilliant deductive skills tell you that?”

“Hey, at least I’m not boring you to death talking about tobacco ash.”

“Oh my God. You stalked his website.” You crossed your arms and leaned forward. “Careful, Dean. Your insecurity is showing.”

Dean growled as Sherlock hooked his hand around your elbow and dragged you inside. He stomped in after you; Sam grumbling just behind him.

“These two need tattoos,” you told the available artist, pointing to Sherlock and John. 

You took a hold of Sherlock’s wrist and showed the artist the anti-possession symbol.

“Like this.”

“Actually,” Dean yanked down the collar of his t-shirt, “Like this.”

“Don’t you have something better to do? Got a pigeon to argue with?” 

You glared at him. Sherlock chuckled to himself as Dean removed his hand from his shirt. 

“Who says I don’t want some new ink?” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Wait, you’re not getting one?” John asked you.

“I already have one.”

“So you  _ did  _ finally listen to me?” Dean threw out his hands.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Us, Dean. We both wanted her to get one. Especially with Crowley constantly hanging around.”

“You have a tattoo?” John’s eyes went wide. “I’ve seen...quite a bit of you…for  _ medical _ purposes of course.”

His gaze flickered to Dean for a moment.

“But I never saw a tattoo…”

“Of course she has a tattoo, John.” Sherlock tucked your hair behind your ear. “It’s right by her—”

You latched your palm to his wrist and glared at him. 

“Sherlock.”

He smirked and withdrew his hand. 

“It’s  _ quite _ flattering.” 

“Oh my God.” You buried your face in your hands.

Dean took a step forward. But Sam grabbed his shoulder and clamped down.

“Dude, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

With a grumble, Dean jerked out of his brother’s grasp.

“Maybe you need a touch-up, Troublemaker.”

But you were completely focused on pointing to different locations on Sherlock’s body.

“Does anyone else work here? I’m here to get tatted up!” Dean barked.

“Yeah! That’s what I love to hear.” 

Another artist strutted from the back room. Chewing a wad of gum, she crossed her arms and eyed Dean.

“What‘re we doing today?”

“Oh, um…” He shifted his weight and tittered. “Something to match this.”

Dean pulled down his shirt to flash his anti-possession tattoo. Biting her lip, the artist giggled and took a step forward. She placed her hand to his chest and smirked.

“Show me the canvas.”

She eyed him through her lashes. Breath hitching, Dean glanced at you. But you were talking to Sherlock as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“I’m up here.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Huh?” You looked at him with wide eyes.

Sherlock smirked as John pulled his shirt over his head and groaned. 

“If you two defile this toilet, I’m never traveling with you again.”

You scratched the back of your head. “John, I don’t know what you’re—”

Dean cleared his throat.

He yanked off his shirt and grinned at the artist. 

“Right here.” He swiped his index finger across his chest. “One word. Troublemaker.”

Sam snorted a laugh.

“What?” Dean scowled at him.

“Desperate,” he coughed.

“I hope ya live up to the name.” The artist popped a bubble and laughed.

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart. I do.” He winked at her.

After a few hours of grunts, gritted teeth, and Dean staring down Sherlock, the tattoo artists completed their work on the residents of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock sucked in a breath as he tossed his shirt back on. Biting your lip, you took it upon yourself to button it. He smirked at you and you cocked an eyebrow.

“How you holding up, Watson?”

“Fine,” John grunted as he popped his head through the collar of his shirt.

You gave Dean a sideways glance. But you did a double take when you caught a glimpse of his chest. Your eyes widened and you stared at Sam, who only stifled a laugh.

Hands in his pockets, Sam shrugged.

“His attention has been...elsewhere this whole time.”

“Because I don’t have a problem with the needle,” Dean grunted.

“No, you most certainly don’t, Dean Winchester.” You grinned at him and left.

Two minutes later, Dean’s pupils blew wide open at the familiar roar of Baby’s engine. He whipped his head around just in time to see you screeching onto the road.

“OH HELL NO!” He lurched forward.

“Hold still!” The artist squeaked.

Sam buckled over in a fit of laughter, relieved he could finally do so after holding it in for hours.

“Well, at least you have something to remember this trip by.”

He nodded to Dean’s chest. 

In an elegant script was a single half-baked word.

_ Trubblemak _

Furrowing his brow, Dean glanced downward.

“You can’t even frickin’ spell?!”

The artist shrugged. “I use auto whatchacallit.”

“Doesn’t really work when you’re permanently marking up my damn chest!”

“Ya look real nice.” She clicked her tongue.

Dean swiped his shirt from the chair and stomped outside.

“I gotta clean that!” the artist called out. “It could get infected!”

“I’LL TAKE MY CHANCES.”

At the cabin, you rolled your eyes at another styrofoam box on the porch. The moment you lifted it up, it started rattling to  _ Cold as Ice _ .

Nodding to the door, you raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Get the other for me?”

He smirked and trotted inside. Sherlock returned to the garden just as you set Jim’s apology in the backseat of Dean’s car. He tossed the first box next to yours.

“I mean, he deals with severed heads all the time.” You shrugged.

You left a note on the passenger side, ruffling Sherlock’s hair as you walked back to the cabin.

“There’s only one name left.” You grimaced at him.

“He won’t stop there.”

“I know. I’ll have to talk to him. But until then I’ll let him finish off the client list for me. That’s what friends are for, right?”

At the front porch, Sherlock held the door open for you. You stroked the side of his face as you sauntered inside.

“Shoulder blade was…” You licked your lips and eyed him.

Sherlock smirked and shoved you inside, cheeks flushed for a moment when your back was facing him.

It took the Winchesters forty-five minutes and three wrong turns to find their way back to your cabin. Dean threw out his arms at the sight of Baby. 

“I’m so sorry. No one’s ever going to violate you again.”

Sam rolled his eyes. But, upon sight of the hot pink sticky note, he lunged forward and swiped it from the dashboard.

Dean reached out. But Sam pressed the tips of his fingers to his chest with the lightest touch, causing Dean to wince and spring backward.

“Son of a—let me see that!”

Sam held up your note and smirked. Clearing his throat, he crumpled up the post-it and slid it into his back pocket.

“Got a lunch date.” Sam shrugged. “You’re not invited.”

“Like hell I’m not. After what she did to Baby? I’m going to—”

“Show off your new ink?” Sam laughed. 

“Well, no. I can, I’m gonna put my shirt back on.”

“Dean. Disinfect that thing and put some bandages on it. I’ll let you know if she says anything important.”

“Like...like a spy?”

Sam scoffed. “Sure, whatever.”

He marched up to the cabin. Just as he raised his fist to the door, you opened it wide with a smile.

“Sam.” You beamed at him. “Just the man I was waiting for.”

“AW, C’MON!” Dean shouted from the car.

Sam furrowed his brow and glanced back. “Do I want to know?”

“Nope.” You popped the last syllable. “Now, come on in. We have much to discuss.”


	4. Who Wants to Live Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death
> 
> (But as with SPN...does anything really stay dead?)

Sitting at the cabin dining table, John snacked on a crisp as you talked to Sam. He leaned over and whispered to Sherlock.

“She’s doing her interrogation thing, right? Trying to evaluate how severe the delusion is?”

Sherlock drew in a breath and pursed his lips. He was, for once, at a loss for a suitable explanation. 

“You’re telling me,” you swallowed, “that Castiel tried to become a god?”

“God. Like capital G God.”

You slammed your beer bottle back to the table.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“They’re going to kill me for telling you this.” Sam dragged his hand down his face.

“Oh no, Sam. They’re going to make everyone else pay for their misplaced anger.”

“Eve.”

“Castiel is a murderer masquerading as a martyr. I can’t believe you two are still hanging out with him.”

John scrunched his face. “Castiel. That’s a...peculiar name.”

“Angel,” Sam said.

“Of the Lord,” you added in your most mocking tone.

“C’mon, Eve! He’s made some mistakes. But, I mean, haven’t we all?”

“But who is the one who double crossed Crowley and opened the fucking doors to purgatory?”

“Another Dante reference?” John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

But the detective only glanced down and ruffled his hair.

“He saved your life.” Sam gave you a stern look. “You were practically dead when we found you.”

Sherlock stared at his full plate and clenched his jaw. Rolling your eyes, you swiped a crisp from him and glared at Sam.

“I’d rather be dead than let leviathans murder tens of thousands of people.”

“What the hell happened between you two?”

“Are you serious, Sam? You’re the smart one. Castiel and I  _ never _ trusted each other.”

“But something happened before you left. Why won’t you just tell us?”

You took another swig of beer.

“That’s not my secret to tell.”

“So...what? You’re just going to go back to London and leave us here like nothing ever happened?”

“No!” you scoffed. “I’m going to go back to London and you two are going to figure out this Mark of Cain mess by yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to you. 

“Things get real biblical around here.” You shrugged. “Sam, how am I supposed to help you anyway? You two are the Winchesters. The big heroes who always save the day.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam replied.

“No, it’s not fair that you’re all trying to drag me back into this shit show. I got out of the life before and I never wanted to come back.”

Sam released a sharp exhale. Pushing out your chair, you rose to your feet and crossed your arms.

“I won’t lie and say it wasn’t good to see you. But please, leave me out of this and send me a postcard when Dean isn’t a raging psycho murderer...oh wait…”

“Eve.” Sam gave you a stern look.

“I was out, Sam. I was finally out. I’m not getting involved with this shit again. You should know. You should know of  _ anyone _ why that matters so much.”

“You’re never really out.”

“No, but like Doctor Watson here, I displaced my need for danger in a healthier environment.”

“I wouldn’t call it healthy…” John grimaced.

“John’s better at coping than you,” Sherlock chimed in. 

“John. I was almost a midnight snack for a vampire. I’ll take the serial killers or Jim Moriarty any day. Hell, I’d rather deal with your brother than Castiel.” You raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

You started to walk Sam to the door, leaving John to stare at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“Is she really going to let these guys run around thinking they’re killing vampires?”

On the front porch, you crossed your arms and looked down. Shaking your head, you drew in a deep breath before looking back at Sam.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I really am.”

“We...we don’t  _ need  _ your help. But just, please, answer me one question.”

“I won’t tell you what Cas—”

“If it wasn’t for them, would you...would you come back?”

“I am not usually in the business of honesty. But I will tell you the God’s honest truth. They are  _ exactly _ the reason I won’t get involved in this. You of all people should know that the people you care about die in this life. I will not, under any circumstances, let anything happen to them.”

“You did it. You really did it.” Sam threw out his hands. “You just...replaced us.”

“I didn’t replace you.”

By now, Dean marched onto the porch. Sam started walking away and waved a hand in your direction.

“Let’s just go, Dean. She doesn't care.”

“Sam,” you murmured. 

“You told her about the Mark?” Dean asked.

But Sam was already strutting back the Impala and shaking his head.

“I didn’t replace you,” you pleaded to Dean.

“Really? Sure looks like it. With some uppity downgrades if you ask me.”

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t ask.”

“Just what are you expecting out of this? You know we don’t get happy endings. Think you can just run across the world, chase serial killers, and have little fake detective babies?”

“Dean.” You gritted your teeth. “Leave.”

“Fine, I will.”

“Fina—”

“But only if you admit that you’re making a mistake.”

Dean held his breath as you avoided his gaze. Lip trembling, you looked down and drew in an inhale. 

“It’s a mistake, Dean. It’s all a mistake. I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

For a moment, he could only stare at you. 

And stare. 

And stare.

And stare.

“Your lying is getting worse.”

“Oh, Dean,” you growled. “You could never read people like I could.”

Turning on your heel, you stomped inside. Your chest tightened at the sound of the Impala driving away. Yet another piece of your past droned farther, farther, and farther away from you.

In the dining room, you swiped your beer from the table and polished it off. John blinked rapidly and threw his hands in the air.

“They left?!”

“Yeah.” You shrugged and set the empty bottle down. “It’s kinda what I was going for.”

“You need to contact the police. They are dangerous!”

“Understatement of the year,” you grumbled. 

“This isn’t a joke, Eve. Those two are severely delusional and they are going to get themselves killed or worse.”

“Worse. The answer is worse.”

“Sherlock! What is...has she gone mad?”

“John! I’ve been telling you the truth the whole time.” You paced alongside the dining table. “Vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, oh my! They’re all real. And so are demons, angels, and witchcraft.”

“I’m…” John put a hand on his hip and shook his finger at you. “I’m going to figure out why you’re behaving this way.”

At the end of the table, you turned on your heel to continue pacing. But you bumped right into Sherlock.

He looked at you with sorrowful eyes. With a small smile, you traced your fingers down his arm to take his hand in yours.

“I just wanted to come home for a bit. I was having dreams abo…”

You closed your eyes and drew in a breath.

“Crowley.”

Freeing Sherlock’s hand you spun around and threw your fingertips to your temples. 

“He’s been manipulating my dreams to get me to come back here. Oh, you’re good. You’re really good, you Scottish, toasty bastard. He’s the only person who could manipulate me so well. But, I mean, it’s kinda cheating when you’re the King of Hell with one of the most powerful witches in history for a mother!”

“Careful,” Sherlock whispered as he turned you to face him.

“Careful? I can take him! I can take them all! I’ll kill of them if it means—”

“No, careful because John is about to have an aneurysm. And he’s our only doctor.”

“Oh, shit.”

You glanced at John, whose muscles were so tense it was painful to look at. 

“You were right, Sherlock!”

You grinned at him with a look of  _ I hope this fucking works _ behind your eyes.

“I thought we could trick John into believing in the supernatural. But you were right. He’s far too smart for even my most complicated scheme yet.”

Sherlock scoffed. “How you could underestimate John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I will never understand. Nor be bothered to sympathize with the mind of someone who thinks so lowly of our—”

“Tone it down,” you whispered.

“Fifty quid you said?”

“All of this?” John whined. “All of this for fifty quid when we all use the same bank account?!”

“I just wanted to prove myself right?” You shrugged. 

“And those men?” John cocked an eyebrow. 

“Um, actors. Actors who I hired and paid way more than fifty bucks to...you’re right. It was very stupid. Very stupid, indeed.”

You started unfolding the cash in your pocket. Biting your lip, you raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“I did get the tattoo right.”

“True. Call it thirty.” He shrugged.

“Oh my God.” John threw his hands into his hair. “You two are LUNATICS! I’m lasering this thing off the moment I can.”

“DON’T,” you and Sherlock protested, staring at the doctor with wide eyes.

“What for? So you can use it as evidence of how easily manipulated I am?”

Your eyes darted to Sherlock. He opened his mouth to reply but you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Because it’s sexy as hell!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Yes...precisely.”

“I don’t need this to pick up women.” John pointed over his shoulder.

“No, you certainly don’t.” You shook your head. “But it wouldn’t hurt. You know the moment that thing heals, I’m...putting my tongue all over it.”

You raised your eyebrows at Sherlock. He gave you a bewildered expression. But you could only grimace and shrug in reply.

John narrowed his eyes. 

“Is it really that attractive?”

“Abso-fricken-lutely!”

“Tone it down,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Yes, John. It’s really hot. Keep it. For the ladies.”

“Alright...I’ll, I’ll think about it.”

“Just promise me you’ll talk to me before you ever remove it.”

“My body is not for you to—”

“Just promise me, John!” you screeched, voice jumping an octave.

“Okay, okay.” He held up his palms in defense. “I’ll keep it. For good.”

You and Sherlock breathed a sigh of tremendous relief. 

“This trip has been a disaster,” you complained. “Let’s just enjoy the time without any electronics. And when Jim sends his final gift, I’ll talk to him and we can get back home.”

“Sounds good to me.” John gave you a nod.

He started trotting up the stairs. But John turned around and pointed a finger at you.

“Oh, and Eve.”

“Yes, brother dear?”

“Don’t ever pull a prank again.”

“This is why I hate them. I’m no good.”

“No, you’re not.”

He scampered upstairs.

When John was out of sight and, more importantly, earshot, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m putting my tongue all over it?”

“It was the only thing I could think of!”

With a smirk, Sherlock wrapped his hand around the nape of your neck. He leaned in and licked a stripe behind your ear before nipping your earlobe and withdrawing.

Your breath caught in your throat and stared at you with wide eyes.

“I believe the phrase was ‘sexy as hell’.” He stood upright.

Putting your hand in your back pocket, you shook your head and laughed.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

Sherlock placed his hand along your waist and drew you close to him. You tucked your nose in the crook of his neck as he planted a kiss on your head.

“I need you to tell me everything,” he murmured into your hair.

“I don’t want to talk about them.”

He put his hands on your shoulders and guided you upright, giving you a stern look.

“Not the Winchesters. The truth.”

“Sherlock. I don’t know…”

“I’m ready.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “Tell me everything.”

“Alright, Holmes.” You strutted to the kitchen and snatched a beer from the fridge. With a grunt, you snapped the lid off with your ring before returning to him. “But I promise you this is no lesson in tobacco ash.”

He smirked, swiping the bottle from you and taking a sip. 

“Now I know exactly who you learned that from.” He handed the beer back to you.

You chuckled and plopped on the edge of the coffee table. On the couch, Sherlock sat across from you. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

After a swig, you set the bottle aside and smirked.

“We’ll start with monster 101, my brilliant detective. How much do you know about shapeshifters?”

Hours later, you were in the middle of your verbal dissertation on angels when John started thumping down the stairs. By now, you were reclined on the couch with your feet in Sherlock’s lap. He traced circles along your ankles with his thumb.

“But they can only possess you with your permission.” You threw your hands into the air. “And if they ever ask, the answer is no. It’s always no. You can’t trust a singl—”

Sherlock pounced on you.

Mashing his lips to yours, he threw his hand under your shirt and pressed his body into you. Your eyes widened in reply. But John shielded his view and lurched backward.

“You two are worse on holiday than when she was house arrest! We are never doing this again. Or at least I’m not coming with you.”

He raced to the kitchen and swiped a sandwich and beer from the refrigerator. Lips connected to yours, Sherlock gawked at John as he raced back to his room. When the door closed, you poked Sherlock’s chest.

He bolted upright. Wiping his lip with his thumb, Sherlock cleared his throat and readjusted on the couch.

“What did they do to you?”

“The what?” your voice cracked. You straightened your posture and sat cross legged next to him.

“The...angels...” 

The word felt foreign on his tongue in such a context. What else did Moriarty mean on that rooftop?

Furrowing your brow, you clasped your hands and looked down. You sucked in a breath. But the air froze in your lungs at a knock at the door.

Gritting your teeth, you scribbled a signature and exchanged the clipboard for the package from the courier. You returned to Sherlock and set the styrofoam box on the coffee table. Sitting next to him, you removed the lid. But upon the sound of silence, you cocked an eyebrow and glanced at him.

Sherlock nodded for you to continue. You reached behind the severed head of your final mark, grabbing onto the roots of his hair for leverage. You plucked the mobile tucked at the bottom of the box.

But you gave Sherlock a curious look when the mobile refused to serenade you. You pressed a few buttons. But, determined to capture your full attention, the device would only allow the call button to turn on the screen.

“Sherlock…” You gulped. “Call Jim.”

But he was already, one, two, three steps ahead of you.

In the middle of the night, Mycroft’s eyes bolted open to the grating sound of his mobile vibrating beside him. He rolled his eyes at the sight of his brother’s name and, against his better judgment, answered.

“Has America already tired of you?”

“Where is Moriarty?”

Mycroft sat upright and groaned.

“Are you truly that jealous? It’s such a...simplistic emotion.”

“Where. Is. He?”

“He’s been quite busy.” Mycroft released a pained sigh. “Quite fascinated with the goldfish these days. Sparring a few international deliveries for your...companion. You needn’t be concerned.”

Sherlock ended the call.

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the screen.

You examined the mobile. But, receiving no new clues from the hauntingly quiet device, you handed it to Sherlock. Your heartbeat quickened in pace as you shook your head.

“Sherlock, I-I can’t think straight. What did he say?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and flipped the phone on its side for further study.

“Nothing...and do pardon the choice of words...out of the ordinary.”

“What are the chances he’s just giving me the silent treatment? Because this isn’t a mistake. He wouldn’t just send me a phone that doesn’t work on accident.”

“I estimate seventy percent.” He handed the mobile back to you.

“That’s a seventy percent chance he’s occupying himself with something or someone else. And it’s not going to...not going to fare well for anyone.”

You bolted to your computer at the dining table. 

After staring at the screen for a few heavy breaths, your device remained void of the consultant criminal. You furiously typed away and exchanged your tickets for a direct flight to London, set to depart the next day. But even after you announced your return to anyone lurking on your network, nothing happened.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

Not a peep from your laptop, mobile, nor even the severed head.

“Sherlock.” You whipped your head around. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Because of the evidence or your emotional attachment?”

“Are you really trying to pick a fight with me right now? You know that nothing good can come of him getting bored of us.”

“He’s certainly not bored of you. Right now, the worst damage James Moriarty is doing is to himself. While he tries to avoid you in a painful attempt to stir your emotions and elicit a response.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. But Sherlock only shrugged.

“It’s exactly what I would do.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Call the seventy percent one-hundred.”

“Okay.” You slowly rose to your feet. “What do we do now?”

“Dispose of...that.” He nodded to the killer staring at him from the styrofoam box.

You slammed the lid on top and shoved the box in the refrigerator.

“Tomorrow...I can’t, I can’t think right now.” You plopped on the couch next to him.

Sherlock smirked. “You’ll hear from him by morning. He won’t last long.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Finally.”

“Yes,” you laughed. “Finally.”

But when Sherlock ended the call with his brother, Mycroft crept out of his bed. The older Holmes felt just as disturbed as you.

Drawing in a breath, he lurked down the hallway with the utmost caution. Mycroft’s spine tingled as he clutched the angle blade in his palm, normally sheathed within the comforts of his umbrella.

The moment he stepped into the foyer, Mycroft’s muscles froze upon a gentle whoosh of air. The lights illuminated the room against his own volition and Mycroft’s heart, yes, he was woefully aware of its existence at this particular moment in time, started racing. His eyes widened at the sight before him.

“Oh, Eve,” Mycroft whispered. “What have you done?”

He straightened his posture, only able to stare at his antique rug.

With the body of James Moriarty on top.

Eyes scorched from his skull.


	5. Long Live the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical Inspiration for this chapter is The Show Must Go On by Queen

Sherlock was right.

In the middle of breakfast the next morning, you announced that today would be your final day in America. John lazily picked at the food on his plate and yawned.

“I’ll help you wash your tattoo if you need.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Help me wha? Oh yeah, sure.”

You took a sip of coffee when Sherlock’s mobile started ringing. He scrunched his face at the caller ID. But, observing your knee bouncing underneath the table and your clenched jaw, he rose to his feet.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Mycroft is retaliating.” He pecked you on the cheek. “Don’t fret.”

You narrowed your eyes as Sherlock strutted to the bedroom.

“I think we should make two AM phone calls a regular form of contact, brother dear,” he answered. “You on the receiving end, of course.” 

But before you could study Sherlock’s peculiar behavior, your mental processes were interrupted with a knock on the door.

“Oh thank God.” You dashed to answer.

Yet, when you threw open the door, you froze at the sight of a woman in a black suit. 

“Mr. James Moriarty.” She nodded her head.

“Is he really trying to claim me as his own?”

The woman handed you a phone. One that, while you had no idea, was nearly identical to Irene’s camera phone from many adventures ago. Narrowing your eyes at the device, you saw the notification for one voicemail. You raised the phone to your ear and hit play.

In the bedroom, Sherlock spoke lowly as his eyes flickered around the room.

“Are you certain?”

“Do I look like the type of amateur who would not be thorough?” Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’ve fooled you before. He certainly could.”

“Sherlock, come home. Immediately.”

“We are leaving this evening.”

“I’m sending someone to get you.”

“Why are you...why are you so insistent?”

Silence.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Sherlock asked.

“This is not up for discussion. Be ready by 1400.”

“Myc—”

“This is out of _both_ our depths, little brother. I will see you all very soon.”

Mycroft ended the call.

Blinking a few times, Sherlock tried to piece together the events of the past twenty-four hours. But his thoughts were interrupted by your voice from downstairs.

“Sherlock! I need your phone.”

He scampered downstairs and outstretched his mobile to you. You plucked it from his hand with a smirk. But his eyes widened at the camera phone and thumb drive in your other hand.

You dialed Jim and laughed.

“He’s testing me.” You waited for Jim to answer. “Sending me on a mission to see how well I can get his—”

The call ended.

Offense written across your face, you scoffed at the phone.

“Really mature, Jim! Well, you got what you wanted. I am going to annoy you into paying attention to me.”

Sherlock reached for your wrist. When his fingers grazed your hand, you slammed the call button and threw his phone back to your ear.

“If there’s anything I know,” you snipped, “it’s how to captivate a man’s attention. Even a psycho genius like—”

The call ended.

“He’s not even letting me spam him with voicemails!”

“Stop.” Sherlock gave you a stern look.

“Don’t feel threatened, Holmes. I’m just trying to keep him occupied.”

You redialed. 

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded.

Observing this exchange, John narrowed his eyes.

“Sherlock...what happened?”

But Sherlock could only grit his teeth and stare at the doctor with wide eyes. He withdrew his mobile from your hand and bore his eyes into you.

“He’s dead.”

“Moriarty’s dead?” John asked.

“I know.” You shrugged. “He wants me to think he’s dead. Part of this next game of his. That’s why he gave me his client list.”

You flashed him the thumb drive and mobile in your other hand. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from the evidence to your face, haunted by the way you scoffed.

“It’s a test, right?” you laughed.

“No.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to protect me from him.”

“It’s not, this isn’t a game.”

“Jim’s not dead. He can’t be.”

Then, Sherlock said the last word you expected to leave his lips. 

He whispered your name.

Your given name.

For a few breaths, you could only stare at him. You blinked a few times to recalibrate, glancing at the devices in your hand. Mouth agape, your eyes finally met his again.

“What did Mycroft tell you?”

But before Sherlock could reply, you swiped his mobile from him and phoned the elder Holmes.

“This is not a deba—”

“How did he die?” you growled.

“Why Eve...I afraid I am not at lib—”

“How did he die, Mycroft?”

Pause.

Agonizing pause.

“A single sniper round between the eyes.”

“Mycroft.” You clenched your grip around Sherlock’s phone.

“It appears his contract work finally caught up to him.”

“You are the only man, other than the recently departed, who has ever seen through me with a single look.” 

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. Grinding your teeth, you swallowed and sucked in a breath.

“But you forget, Mr. Holmes, that you are not looking through a one-way mirror, but a window. Now tell me. How did Jim Moriarty die?”

“If I tell you, there’s no unknowing.”

“Stop being dramatic and spit it out.”

“His eyes, Eve. They were…”

“Burnt to a crisp.” 

Silence.

“We’re staying here until I find who did this.”

You ended the call. 

Hanging your head, you drew in a breath.

“This has to be a joke,” you whispered. “Maybe Gabriel or...no, it couldn’t be…”

John joined you and Sherlock at the center of the sitting room. He crossed his arms and glanced at the detective.

“Who killed Moriarty?”

“I, I don’t know," Sherlock replied.

“But he gave you his client list?” John nodded to you.

Without a word, you stomped over to your laptop and inserted the USB drive. But the moment the device connected to your machine, you scoffed at the empty files.

“See?” You glanced at Sherlock. “It’s a joke. It’s a cosmic joke.”

But the camera phone buzzed next to you as a steady stream of contacts started uploading: featuring names, phone numbers, and notes on each person.

When the transfer was complete, Jim’s face flashed on the screen of the mobile.

“The show must go on,” he demanded before the screen went black.

“No!” You sprang to your feet. “This wasn’t, NO.”

You swiped the mobile from the table and clenched your teeth at the name you were searching for. You slammed the call button and gulped.

“I already promised you, James, as former King of the Cross—”

“Get here...NOW.” You stomped to the kitchen and grabbed a knife.

“I would, m'eudail. But—”

You stabbed your warding and Crowley appeared behind you.

John had his gun on Crowley in 0.02 seconds. The King of Hell narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, I heard about this one. Not as cute as I expected.”

“Don’t mind him.” You waved your hand at John.

Furrowing his brow, John lowered his weapon and glanced at Sherlock.

“Me? She was...she was referring to me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Just wait a minute. Who the hell are you?” John demanded. 

“Exquisite choice of words, Doctor Watson. The name is Crowley. Former King of the Crossroads and current King of Hell.”

He placed his hand to his chest and leaned forward. You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes. 

“Do you expect applause?”

“No, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to bow every now and then.”

“The _King_ of Hell?” John’s mouth hung open.

“Yes, John. He’s a demon.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“DEMON?!”

“Crowley.” You threw your head back and whined. “Can you just do the, you know, so we can move on with this?”

“I can’t believe you called James a king.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “He has no sense of proper royalty.”

“Crowley!”

“Very well, m'eudail. Careful though. Your worry lines are starting to show.”

You opened your mouth to shriek at him. But Crowley spun around and flashed his glowing red eyes at John and Sherlock.

“Care to make a deal?” he snickered.

“NO,” you barked.

“It was just a joke.” Crowley turned to face you. “My, your feathers are quite ruffled today.”

“Sherlock...did he just...what did you put in my coffee?” John stammered.

“I assure you, Doctor Watson. Even your drug-induced imagination couldn’t create me.” Crowley smirked.

“As someone who is quite familiar with the sensation, we are not on drugs, John. This is real. Very much real.” 

Sherlock widened his eyes at the delirious doctor.

“No, no, no, no,” John whined as he shook his head. “You two are—”

You slapped him across the face.

“JOHN! I love you dearly. But the sooner you can catch up to the rest of us, the sooner we can get back to doing what you do best. The players of the game might have changed. Fuck, the entire board and rulebook just went out the window. But, at the end of the day, we’re all here to do one thing. We’re here to solve a murder.”

Chest heaving, you bore your eyes into Sherlock. The corner of his lip upturned in a smirk.

“Well, it is Christmas indeed. The great mystery at hand: who killed James Moriarty?”

“James is dead?” Crowley tilted his head to the side. “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“It’s not his death that disturbs me. But what killed him.” You raised your eyebrows.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “But the Men of—”

“What are the angels doing in London?” 

“I haven’t heard anything. Perhaps you should ask…”

“Take me to his body. I want to see it for myself.”

Crowley closed his eyes. After a pause, he shook his head.

“I would, m'eudail. But even I cannot enter the facility. The warding is far too powerful.”

“Then I’ll settle for Dean’s number.”

“Finally.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

You handed your new mobile to him. With a smirk, he started entering the phone numbers for Sam and Dean (under Moose and Squirrel, of course).

“Mobile phones,” he chuckled. “So much easier than a summoning.”

You swiped your phone back when he was done.

“I will find who did this and I will bring him back.”

“You’ll _what_?” John asked.

“I will resurrect the son of bitch.”

“Careful, m'eudail. What’s dead should stay dead,” Crowley chided.

“Don’t you dare quote Winchester to me.”

“Resurrect Jim Moriarty?!” John protested. “We finally got rid of him. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

“Not like this, John.” You glared at him. “I just...I have to bring him back.”

“You are out of your damn mind.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I am fucking insane because I would do the same thing for you!” you growled at him. 

Nostrils flaring, you took a few breaths and eventually turned to Crowley. 

“I’ll be in touch,” you seethed.

“Oh, m'eudail. I count on it.” 

The King of Hell was gone.

“Demon, definitely a demon,” John mused. “And the tattoo…”

“Anti-possession,” Sherlock answered.

“Yeah, you don’t want one of those suckers up in your meat suit.”

You strutted to the porch to call Dean. But you paused when you saw that the woman who presented your inheritance from the consulting criminal...was still there.

“Is there anything I may do for you?” she mused.

“Who are you?”

“Just as you are now James Moriarty, you may call me Sebastian Moran.”

“Well, Mr. Moran.” You narrowed your eyes. “I assume that even if this were a great cosmic prank, you wouldn’t be able to tell me?”

“It’s not and no.”

“What are you?”

She flashed her black eyes. 

“I was a peace offering for Mr. Moriarty after an unfortunate incident between him and the King. But since, I’ve quite enjoyed the position.”

“Well, I am determined to reinstate the true king of crime. But until then, I have a storage unit in London under the name of Mary Winchester. I want everything shipped here immediately.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll have to get humans to access it. But then you should be able to get everything here fairly quickly.”

“I figured that much.”

“Excellent. And I also need a car.”

“Already done. It’s on its way”

“Already…” You narrowed your eyes.

“James knew you quite well.”

“Yes, that he did.”

Sitting in their motel, Sam scrolled through his laptop for any hidden lore about the Mark of Cain. Reclined on the bed, Dean puckered his lips as he flipped through a magazine.

“Dean.” Sam closed his computer. “It’s time for us to leave.”

“Not just yet, Sammy.”

“C’mon. She clearly wants nothing to do with us. It’s not like she was subtle.”

“Oh, her decisions are going to catch up with her soon enough. Just you wait. The band will be back together in no time.”

“You said yourself she was never meant to be with us.”

Dean scoffed and tossed the magazine aside. 

“Sure. That was before she almost became a blood bag because pretty boy doesn’t know how to take down a frickin’ vamp.”

“She said she was set up.”

“Either way.” Dean shrugged. “It all leads back to one thing. She’s safer with us. Don’t need to be a detective to figure that out.”

“Your jealousy is going to get you killed. I’m pretty sure that thing is infected.”

“Yeah, I’ll just have Cas take a look at it.”

“Dean. We still haven’t heard from him.”

“Like our troublemaker, just you wait.”

Then, as if heaven-sent, Dean’s phone started ringing. He clicked his tongue and pointed a finger gun at Sam. 

“Right on schedule.”

Dean scratched the back of his head, pausing a moment before a single word left his lips.

“Yeah, who is this?”

“Dean,” you hissed. “Have you left the Springs yet?”

“We’re on the road right now.”

Sam scrunched his face. But Dean held up a finger. 

“I mean, you said you wanted us gone. So…”

You held your hand over the receiver and whispered. 

“I don’t have time for your games, Dean! I’m in trouble.”

“Hey, you were the one who made it crystal clear that you wanted nothing to do with us.”

“Dean, John is dead. Sherlock is...it won’t be long. Crowley sent his demons after us when I wouldn’t help him. We were completely ambushed. I’m locked in the bathroom with a bit of warding. But it won’t hold them off for—”

You screamed.

A scream that pierced through Dean’s chest.

The call ended. 

Dean leaped to his feet and ran out of the motel room. The Impala was already increasing in speed as Sam scrambled into the passenger seat.

At your cabin, you slid your mobile into your back pocket. You handed your gun to Sherlock as John withdrew his own.

“We’re all clear on the plan?”

They gave you a nod.

“Wonderful to see you in the field, Captain Watson.”

You winked at him then dragged over a dining chair. Holding up a rope, you shrugged. 

“I’d normally keep this between me and my fantasies. But someone better tie me up.”

Sherlock stepped behind you as you adjusted in the chair.

“They know what they’re doing. Don’t make it too—”

He secured your binding with a grunt. 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“So dominant. Hot.”

You eyed him as he stepped away. John dragged his hand down his face and groaned. 

“Mr. Moran,” you called out. “I believe it’s your turn.”

The demon stepped forward and smirked. John and Sherlock aimed their weapons. But she chuckled lowly.

“Won’t do you boys any good.”

“Who are you?” John narrowed his eyes.

Sebastian flashed her blackened eyes. 

“I believe the question you’re looking for is what. She just told you who I am.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Moriarty’s right hand.”

“Bit of a mirror image, yes?” she mewled. “I served in the British Army as well. About a century ago. But I can still find my way around a sniper rifle. It’s wonderful to see you boys so up close for once.”

John’s shoulders stiffened as he refused to lower his firearm. 

“You almost killed us both.”

“Multiple times. Some you didn’t even know about.” She glanced at Sherlock. “What is it with you boys and Wednesdays?”

“How do I kill it?” John growled. 

“John.” You threw your head back. “Not now. Mr. Moran is on loan to us. Courtesy of Jim while he’s on vacation in the pit. Can we hurry this up?”

“With pleasure,” the demon hummed.

Sebastian struck you across the face. You reeled your head back and turned the other cheek.

“Other side.”

She slammed her fist to your cheekbone and you hissed an inhale. John lurched forward but Sherlock yanked him back by his collar.

Your eyes flickered to your shoulder. 

“You might need to…”

But Sebastian already returned with a knife in hand. 

“No!” John protested.

“This is exactly why I didn’t have you do this,” you said. “And the only marks on my body that I’m getting from him are, well, certainly not this kind.”

You looked at Sherlock, noting the tightness in his jaw and glimmer of fear in his eyes. 

“Take John outside for this, my brilliant detective. We’ll get you when we’re done with playtime.”

With a hard swallow, Sherlock guided John out the front door. 

“Sherlock, ow!” John yelped at the detective’s grip. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

When they were outside, you drew in a breath.

“Put something in my mouth so they can’t hear me.”

After ten minutes, Sebastian opened the door and led the two men inside. John breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You only went for superficial wounds.”

“Don’t I look devastating?” You smirked.

But Sherlock furrowed his brow. Your wince did not go unnoticed. You smiled at him, melting some of his worry for now.

“They’ll be here any moment. Do we have everything ready?”

John waved the lighter at you. “Yup.”

“Then make yourselves scarce, Hardy Boys. Let’s catch ourselves a killer.”


	6. A Deal with the Seraph

Concealed behind the kitchen counter, John was acutely aware of the steady thumping of his heart. 

Pace: regular.

Presence: loud.

He hadn’t felt this satisfied in quite some time; not even when he broke into prison to see you. 

The Winchesters announced their arrival with locks busted beyond repair and blades that were weary from the constant battle. John drew in a deep breath and swallowed as Dean’s voice bellowed throughout the cabin.

“Crowley, you son of a bitch! Come fight us yourself!”

Next to John, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. But the soldier held up a fist, silently commanding them to stay in place. 

Dean raced behind you and started the tedious work of freeing your bindings. Sam stood in front, eager to attack.

“Dean…” you whimpered. “It’s not, it’s not…”

“Hey, hey…we’re gonna get you out of here.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not Crowley who sent them.”

“What?” Sam whipped his head around.

John pointed two fingers forward and rose to his feet.

“Drop it,” he demanded.

The Winchesters' eyes blew wide open as Sherlock and John emerged with their firearms aimed to kill. Dean’s hand tightened around his blade as his head slowly turned to you.

“You set us up?”

“Drop it or I will shoot her between the eyes.” John redirected his aim.

“Yeah, like you could even—”

Sherlock fired a round right between Dean’s feet.

“Next time, I won’t miss,” he growled.

“Dean, I tried...” You shook your head with wide eyes.

Cautiously raising their arms, Sam and Dean allowed their blades to clamor to the floor. Sherlock and John kicked them out of reach.

“Well done.” Sherlock smirked. “On your knees. Hands behind your heads.”

Grinding their teeth, the Winchesters obeyed.

“I knew we couldn’t trust these assholes.” Dean scowled.

“Even for your double digit IQ, you still managed to notice the slightest deception. She certainly couldn’t do that. Perhaps I underestimated you.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“And you are going to regret that, Villanelle.”

“Dean.” Sam bore his eyes into the floor. “Villanelle is Russian.”

“I’m running out of BBC shows!”

“Guys,” you whined. 

“Right.” Dean glared at Sherlock. “What do you want?”

John stepped forward and aimed the barrel at Dean’s head.

“Justice. One of ours was just murdered by an angel.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “But you guys didn’t even know about demons or have anti-possession tattoos. How did you—”

“Deception, Sam.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Even you could have figured that one out.”

“You’ll pay for this,” you seethed.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and smirked. “Although I did enjoy _all_ our time together.”

“I’ll kill you!” You lurched forward, restricted by your bindings.

But Sherlock clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You’ll only get your shot if we get the angel.”

“Well, you two must be taken by my good looks. But while I’m devilishly handsome, I’m no angel,” Dean snickered.

“No, but you do report to one.” John tightened his grip around his gun.

“Repo—”

“Where is Castiel?” Sherlock demanded.

“Bahamas,” Dean spat. “He was thinking London but then he’d have a chance of seeing your ugly mugs.”

“Bring him here. Now.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“We can’t even get him to show,” Sam pleaded. “What makes you think—”

Sherlock lurched forward and rammed the gun to your abdomen.

“You better pray that he listens now. Or her bleeding out will be the last thing that you ever see. So go ahead, Dean. Pray. Pray to your angel.”

Mouth slightly ajar, Dean looked between you and Sam. 

“Don’t do it, Dean,” you whimpered. “He’s a sociopath. He’s going to kill us all anyway.”

But he and Sam were both muttering as fast as they could. Your chest rose and fell as you and Sherlock stared at each other. His eyes flickered to the gun flush against you. But you gave him a nearly imperceptible nod.

_Nearly._

To the untrained, or (as some would call it) unloving, eye.

Sherlock held his breath at the sound of an unfamiliar voice behind him.

“Dean, I—”

“CAS!” Dean barked. “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU—”

“Now, John!” you shouted.

John dropped the lighter onto the holy oil that you stained into the floorboards. Sherlock leaped back just as the flames erupted around you.

Ropes loosened with Dean’s help from moments earlier, you wriggled out of your bindings and rose to your feet.

“Dean. What’s happening?” Castiel furrowed his brow.

“We’ve been set up,” he growled, glaring at you as you stood upright.

“I’m sor—” you started.

“Save it.”

“You two can leave.” Your eyes darted between Sam and Dean. “We only want him.”

“Like hell we are.” Dean balled his hands into fists. He and Sam rose to their feet.

In a single, fluid motion, you spun around to direct your angel blade to Castiel’s throat. He, in turn, outstretched his palm to your head. But the moment his hand was a micron from your skin, Dean protested in your defense.

“CAS, NO!” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I told you we couldn’t trust her.”

You prodded Castiel’s throat with the tip of your blade. He bore his eyes into Dean. But after a tortuous moment (at least for Sherlock and John), Castiel lowered his hand. You tightened your grip around your blade.

“Eve,” Sam whispered.

Feeling every movement of your joints, your elbow unhinged to lower your weapon. You glared at Castiel as you tried to level the howling of your heart with deep breaths.

“I’m just here to talk,” you said.

“Dean.” Castiel’s eyes flickered to him.

You tucked away your blade and crossed your arms.

“Castiel, who killed Jim Moriarty?”

“I don’t even know who that is.” His gaze snapped to you.

“One of your siblings certainly does.”

“If he’s affiliated with you, I’m sure he deserved his fate.”

“Oh, he most certainly did. But Jim and I had a special arrangement. So, to hold up my end of the deal, I need to bring him back. And in order to bring him back safely, I need to know who wanted him dead.”

“Since when do you keep your promises?” Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“I promised to never contact the Winchesters or answer their calls. You never said what to do if we ended up in the same damn restaurant.”

“A technicality.”

“Am I reminding you too much of your family?”

“Cas…” Dean furrowed his brow. “You’re, you’re the one who told her not to talk to us?”

Castiel glanced to the side. He opened his mouth to defend himself. But you beat him to the next word.

“I got dragged back into this cosmic shit show against my will. And I certainly don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. When I have my answers, I promise to never step foot on American soil again. Just as long as you bring me the dear brother or sister who killed Jim Moriarty.”

Castiel stared you down. He counted three of your breaths before his eyes drifted to Dean. But, unsettled by the pained expression on his face, Castiel preferred to continue glaring at you. 

You raised your eyebrows.

“I’d even let you erase the Winchesters from my memory if you resurrected him. But I assume that’s just a pipe dream.”

“So you can identify the truth?” Castiel snarled.

“Give me his killer and I’ll leave the country. For good.”

Castiel’s lip upturned to bare his teeth as he gave you a nod. You chuckled lowly in reply.

“My, you are quick to betray your family, Castiel. And you call me the distrustful one.”

“You wish you had my ability to protect my family.”

“So we have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“Seal it with a kiss?”

“You truly are a demon.”

“One more favor. If you don’t mind,” you teased.

Castiel clenched his jaw. “I’m not here to do your—”

“Remove that abomination of a display of dominance from Dean’s chest.”

“Please,” Dean groaned.

Furrowing his brow, Castiel approached Dean. He placed two fingers to his forehead. In a moment, Dean breathed a gasp of air. 

He yanked on the collar of his shirt and glanced down. Confirming that the artistic nightmare was free from his chest, he threw his head back and sighed.

“John.” 

You looked to the soldier: the human one, at least. 

“Let the angel go.”

Following your instruction, he doused a basin of water over a section of the fire. In an instant, Castiel was gone. Sherlock and John proceeded to extinguish the flames as the Winchesters stared at you.

“What the hell was that about?” Dean barked.

“I’m sorry I had to trick you. But you know he wouldn’t have sho—”

“Did you really promise him you’d never contact us?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re willing to let him remove us from your memory?” Sam asked.

“No, you’d stop him before it got that far.”

“Is this some kind of frickin’ game to you?!” Dean threw out his arms. “We’re all just pawns for you to move around the board and play with? Maybe we will just let Cas roast you next time.”

“Dean! If you haven’t figured it out by now, there is something BIG at play here. Crowley is the one who lured me back to the States. Someone shoved us both inside that restaurant. And that someone’s name is not 'coincidence'.”

“Thought you said there was no cosmic connection between us.”

“There isn’t.” You marched next to Sherlock and crossed your arms. “But there is something, or someone, trying to make it seem so. And I need to figure out who and why.”

“Well, it certainly ain’t me, sweetheart. Because we’re through.”

“I worked so hard to get out of this life and now one of my friends is dead. Whether you like it or not, you’re a part of this too.”

“Worked so hard? Sounds to me like you just made a half-baked promise and left.”

“Dean.” Sherlock stepped forward.

“Oh, so now you know my name?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised but have you _really_ not figured it out by now?”

“Gonna spill all her secrets? With all the pillow talk and whatnot?” Dean scoffed. “C’mon Sam. Let’s go.”

The brothers started heading toward the door. Sherlock spun around and continued.

“She distrusts the angels. And while I certainly can understand from the limited interaction with your alleged friend, this isn’t a disdain that develops in an instant. No, she’s determined to escape this world and not just to get away from you. Although I can certainly sympathize with the cause.”

His eyes flickered to yours for a moment.

“She didn’t need to get an anti-possession tattoo with you, Dean...because she already had one.”

Hand on the doorknob, Dean stopped in his tracks.

“You’re, you’re a hunter?” he called back.

“Raised in the life,” you breathed. 

“So that’s how you caught on so quickly.”

“And why Cas never trusted you.” Sam shook his head. “You were faking.”

Dean turned to glare at you. He scrunched his face in disgust.

“I don’t even want to know what other secrets you’re hiding. I’ve dealt with one psycho bitch I couldn’t trust and she got dragged to Hell. I don’t need another. But I’m sure the same will happen to you.”

John pointed a finger and growled. 

“Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Or they will be the last words that leave that atrocious mouth of yours.”

“Whatever, Doctor Strange. We won’t ever speak to her again.” He narrowed his eyes at you. “And that’s a promise.”

And, with the last word in tow, the Winchesters marched out of your cabin. The door slammed shut, rebounding from the broken latch. But upon the sound of the Impala leaving your garden, you buried your face in your hands and drew in a breath.

Sherlock was magnetized to you in an instant. He reached for your shoulders but retracted from the open cuts along your skin; instead settling for your elbows. He traced his thumb along the spot on your abdomen that met his gun. 

“Are you alright?” he asked lowly.

“I hate this so much.” You looked back at him. “But yes, I’m fine.”

John stomped to the kitchen and started guzzling the nearly empty bottle of scotch. He threw his back to the couch and hiccuped.

“And angels...they’re real too. Not quite what I was expecting.”

“They’re...the fucking worst.” You closed your eyes. 

You marched over to John and sat at the edge of the coffee table, assisting the doctor in polishing off the bottle.

“He healed that tattoo from his body with the tap of a finger?” John furrowed his brow.

“Yes.”

“And he can resurrect people?”

You glanced at Sherlock. “Yes. Usually it’s only archangels. But Castiel got a special promotion from God. It was before I met them.”

“God?”

“Yeah, where do you think they all came from?”

John stared at you with wide eyes. Breath caught in his throat, he looked to Sherlock. John’s eyes pleaded for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. 

Observing their wordless conversation, you threw your head back and laughed.

“Now don’t you two get religious on me.”

“Knowing the existence of a being does not mean I have to believe in it,” Sherlock replied.

You sprang to your feet and skipped, yes skipped, to him. Wrapping your arms around Sherlock’s neck, you beamed at him.

“There’s my beautiful skeptic.”

“The case?” He raised his eyebrows.

But before you could reply, you were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile. 

“I’m going to give John a lesson in monster 101,” you whispered.

He gave you a nod as you sauntered back to the doctor. Scrutinizing the caller ID, Sherlock rolled his eyes and answered.

“Why can’t you just text me?” 

“I know you’re not coming home unless she does,” Mycroft groaned. “Attachment. But I implore you to access your better senses and convince her to leave America. For _her_ safety.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Why, Mycroft. If I didn’t know better, which as we both know, I do, I’d say you were the one with attachment troubling your mind. Or should I say...heart.”

“I’m sure by now you know what killed James Moriarty.”

“Of course.”

“Do you know the last time one of them was sighted here?”

Silence.

“Oh, so there is something I know that you don’t?” Mycroft mused. “Balance is restored.”

“How long?”

“Centuries, Sherlock. Centuries. Now, leave this supernatural business be and abandon your cause.”

“And miss out on, quite literally, the case of the century?” Sherlock smirked. “Your emotions are certainly clouding your judgment today, brother mine.”

“If the angels have arrived, it’s a cosmic calling. One that we should not interfere with. It’s best left to the professionals.”

“Professionals…”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft sneered. “You don’t know.”

Silence.

“Why do you think we aren’t plagued by monsters back home, little brother?”

“They prefer to eat what lives on a steady diet of cheeseburgers, whiskey, and brash behavior.”

“True. But more to the point, there is an organization that has taken on the responsibility of exorcising what goes bump in the night from British soil.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to you as you told John how to kill a werewolf; with expressive hand gestures no less.

“The Men of Letters, Sherlock. They have perfected the art of, what the Americans call, hunting.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course we already have. It won’t take long to solve this.”

“Not for them, it won’t. You, however, are not equipped for this line of work.”

“I am no amateur.”

“Sherlock. This isn’t up for discussion. If you want to learn about angels and demons, read a textbook. I recommend starting with the Bible.”

Sherlock drew in a sharp inhale to retort. But he paused. He narrowed his eyes and 

slowly

intentionally 

...exhaled.

“You’re scared,” he replied.

Pause.

“The men who track down these beasts are not like you and I, Sherlock. In fact, I argue they are not men at all.”

“Demons?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft droned. “It’s just...in order to dabble in the supernatural, one must sacrifice a part of one’s humanity. The Men of Letters have their methods. While the Americans opt for alcoholism, at the very least. This is why you must return home immediately and leave this rather inconvenient matter to someone else.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, mind racing to extrapolate the possible outcomes of this hunt. However, each of his calculations included the same weighted truth.

There was nothing, from Heaven nor Hell, that could get you to leave this alone. 

“I have taken your warning into consideration, Mycroft. But I, with all respects due, which by the way are very few, decline.”

Sherlock ended the call.

Mycroft tossed his mobile on the end table next to his chair. He drew in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. The conversation went, of course, exactly as he expected.

It was time for phase two.


	7. Azrael’s Notebook

“Alright, Hardy Boys. Time for us to fetch some leverage.”

“Leverage?” John asked.

“Against whom?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

In the cabin sitting room, you crossed your arms and raised your eyebrows.

“Heaven, of course.” You smirked. “I happen to know they’ve been missing a particular item. Or call it a weapon, depending on whose hands it’s in. I'm not just going to rely on Castiel for information.”

“Um, yes. Heaven. If there’s a hell and angels exist, course there’s a heaven. What’s the item?” John scratched the back of his head.

“Azrael’s notebook.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “The Angel of Death.”

“But I thought reapers…” John’s eyes darted around the room.

“You boys are catching on rather quickly.” You beamed at them. “Azrael _was_ an angel. But he was no messenger of death. Just a scribe. His job was to record the names of humans in his notebook when they’re born and erase them at their time of death. Like an angelic census.”

“Let me guess.” John put his hands on his hips. “The notebook isn’t just for data collection.”

You snapped and pointed a finger gun at him. 

“Exquisite deduction, John. Yes, erase a name and the person dies. Even if it’s premature.”

“You can kill anyone with the flick of finger.” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Precisely why Heaven would love to have it back. And I happen to know exactly where it is.”

“How?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Careful, my brilliant detective. Can’t give away all my secrets just yet.”

You gave him a wink before strutting to the front door, holding it open so they could enter the garden. At the sight of the black Wrangler on the grass, you smirked. 

“Oh, Jim. You’re so good to me.”

Three hours into your drive, John’s eyes still hadn’t left Sebastian in the back seat.

“At ease, soldier,” she sneered.

“I don’t take orders from dead men.”

John tightened his grip around the angel blade. He refused to let anyone else sit in the backseat with the demon.

“Honestly, Captain. I’m the one who gave you that weapon. Least you could do is buy me dinner before you try to whip it out on me.”

“If you let _anything_ happen to her, I will—”

Her eyes flashed black with glee. “What? Kill me? Don’t be predictable.”

“Children,” you muttered.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course Moriarty had a demon on his payroll.” John leaned toward Sebastian, ready to strike at any moment.

“Money,” she laughed. “I remember when that mattered.”

“John, you have an angel blade and Sherlock and I can exorcise a demon in our sleep. Plus, Sebastian wants the same thing that we do.”

“That you do. I don’t want Moriarty back.”

“I second that,” Sherlock murmured. 

You rolled your eyes. 

John sucked in a breath and faced forward, allowing Sebastian to relax her shoulders ever since she sat next to the hamster. Not that she was afraid. She wouldn’t be bothered by such a simplistic emotion. The meat suit was just getting...weary.

“You already memorized that exorcism ritual?” John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“It’s Latin, John. Not an alien language.”

“Oh God. Are aliens real too?”

“I’m going to leave that one to Gabriel.” You grimaced.

“So the man we’re robbing—”

“Reclaiming stolen items, John. That notebook belongs to Heaven.”

“Right. The man we’re robbing is a collector of supernatural items?”

“Yes. Has a fondness for things like Basilisk fangs, the Staff of Moses…”

“Demon bones,” Sebastian snickered.

“Yeah, he’s a grade A weirdo. But I need you two to keep him occupied while Sebastian and I look for the notebook.”

“And if anything happens to you?” John glared at the demon.

“I’m more worried about you two. The man is immortal.”

“He’s what?!”

“But only on his property,” Sebastian said. “So if you boys find yourselves unable to handle an old man, call for help.”

“We won’t need help. And especially none that you’re offering,” John snarled.

“Just don’t die,” you groaned. “You two have a better track record of that than the Winchesters. Keep him occupied enough for us to grab the notebook and go.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at you.

“How did you learn about this man? The Winchesters aren’t organized enough to orchestrate a heist like this. Let alone find a reclusive agoraphobe.”

“I, um, I worked a job with a friend one time.” You shrugged. “We went to steal the Wings of Icarus. Only made it out with a feather. But it was a fun gig.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Met him in the pit once. And he thought the sun was too hot.”

“And this, er, friend of yours?” John raised his eyebrows.

“John!” You rolled your eyes. “Yes, he was my friend and we fucked constantly. If you make this into another lecture about relationships, I’ll sick Sebastion on you.”

“Oh, what fun,” she cooed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You trusted him.”

“Don’t you get jealous on me. You should know that was just a joke.”

“But you haven’t contacted him yet because he’s dead…”

Sherlock examined your physical response.

“...you pushed him away…”

Not that one.

“...he pushed you away…”

“We made a pact, okay? We agreed that once we were out, we were out for good. I helped him with the job so it would be his last. I’m definitely not dragging him back into this now.”

“Even though you know he’s far more equipped to help you with this than even me or the Winchesters.”

“Sherlock, I have you and John. The greatest detective, crime solving team in the world. You have taken my case not just once, but twice now. Why would I need anyone else?”

“Are you trying to flatter me into dropping the subject?”

“Only if it’s working.”

Sherlock smirked and resumed looking out the window. He chose to compile the rest of his theory in his mind. Even though you weren’t necessarily more amicable there. But at least you asked more helpful questions.

In a matter of painful hours, Sherlock and John were standing across from Luther Shrike. They clinked their glasses and took a sip of his homemade gin.

“I don’t get out much. So forgive me for not knowing who you are.”

Luther clasped his hands together and leaned over his desk.

“Detective Sherlock Holmes and my blogger Doctor John Wa—”

“I know who you are now.” Luther waved his hand. “Did a little research when you reached out. So you finally know what’s really out there?”

Sherlock smirked. “I always knew. Just didn’t have a compelling enough reason to trouble myself with the supernatural.”

“And now?”

“I’m bored.”

Luther chuckled and leaned back in his chair. 

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“He’s a detective.” John put his hands on his hips. “And I’m sure you have a good mystery or two that you’d like solved. Like the location of certain artifacts, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“He’s the best there is.”

“So the masses claim. But I’m not easily dazzled by magic tricks and fake deaths. Been to Hell and back after all.”

“You mean that literally.” John swallowed.

“But of course.” Luther outstretched his hands. “If you want my knowledge, you’ll have to prove yourself to me. Can’t go giving you information only to sell it to the highest bidder.”

Sherlock leaned his head back and chuckled. 

“I am not in need of money. But, of course, Mr. Shrike. I’ll play your game. I expected nothing less.”

“Why come all the way here for a good mystery? Don’t you have enough demons back home?”

“And miss out on the opportunity to meet an immortal man?”

“How did you find me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Like he said.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I’m a detective. The best there is.”

“Very well then. There is an item on my radar. A knife. Rumored to be able to—”

Luther froze upon the sound of ceramic breaking.

In a display room with Luther’s lesser valuable collectibles, Sebastian hissed at you.

“Just what did Jim see in you?”

You shoved the broken vase to the side with your boot.

“My tits are very real,” you snipped. “I freed you from that Devil’s trap. But the next one I might just leave you.”

“And when I see Jim back in Hell, I’ll be sure to tell him—”

Gunshot.

“Shit!” 

You started to dash toward the office. But Sebastian grabbed ahold of your elbow. 

“I’ll get them.”

“No.” You yanked your arm away. “Find the notebook. Then we’re all getting the fuck out of here.”

Another gunshot.

Faster than you knew was humanly possible for yourself, you were busting down the door to that office. Books strewn about the floor in varying states of destruction, Luther’s eyes blew wide open at the sight of you.

“You,” he seethed. “Back here with that angel of yours. Which one of you is—”

But John, seizing the moment, yanked on the back of Luther’s head and slammed his face into the desk. When Luther reeled his head back, John punched him in the jaw; effectively knocking out the immortal man.

The three of you raced outside the office. 

“Sebastian!” you called out.

“Got it. But I’m indisposed.”

You dashed into the collection room and flipped over the corner of the rug. But Sebastian pointed to the ceiling. 

“Well, shit,” you whispered.

But Sherlock was already a step ahead and at least a few inches above everyone in the room. He took your angel blade and pierced the Devil’s trap in the ceiling. 

Freeing the four of you to escape to the Wrangler.

On the drive back, you smirked at your success.

“Don’t resurrect him until we’re back in London.” Sherlock stared out the window. 

“What?” You whipped your head around.

“You’re going to add his name to the list, yes? That’s what this was all about.”

“No.” 

Sherlock gave you a deadpan expression in the darkness.

“Sherlock, I’m not lying. You can’t add names to bring people back. It doesn’t work that way.”

He grumbled and turned to face the window. 

“Are you seriously pouting over me _not_ resurrecting Jim?”

“I am dissatisfied because you are lying to me and I don’t know why.”

“Sebastian.” You rolled your eyes. “Give it to him.”

“Are you sure?” 

“He needs the physical evidence.”

Sebastian withdrew the leatherbound pages of death from her inside jacket pocket. When Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the cover, he tugged. But Sebastian retained eye contact and refused to yield. 

“You’re going to need a pen,” she hummed. 

Pursing his lips, Sherlock outstretched his hand. He waited a moment before curling his fingers inward two times in a silent command for attention.

“John!” you shouted.

The soldier jolted from his trance. 

“Huh, wha?”

“Do you have a pen?”

John’s eyes darted around the darkened vehicle. Seeing Sherlock’s open palm, he rolled his eyes and yanked a pen from his jacket pocket; firmly planting it in the detective’s annoyingly demanding hand.

Sherlock spun back around and slammed his back to the seat. He turned on the overhead light and opened the pages. But he furrowed his brow to see they were blank. 

“But—”

“Seven billion people on the planet, genius,” Sebastian groaned. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” you announced. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as his full name appeared across the pages. You gave him a sideways glance.

“Dare to cross it out?” Sebastian snickered.

He slammed the book closed.

“If I write his name and he returns, then I’m the one who brought him back.”

“Sherlock, you think too much of yourself.”

You pulled over. You yanked the notebook and pen from his hand and scribbled “James Moriarty” across the blank pages.

Sherlock and John held their breath.

Sebastian soaked in the tension.

And you waited.

You were right...right?

But, against Sherlock’s better judgment, nothing happened.

Nothing.

Nothing. 

No one. 

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath.

“The angel you worked with told you the truth.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So it’s not that you didn’t trust me…”

“You said to not trust a single one of them.”

“Well, one exception.” 

You started the engine and pulled back onto the empty road.

“But I’m keeping all my promises. Jim is coming back. And I’m not bothering...my angel.”

“His name?”

“If I tell you, it’s that much easier to think I can rely on him. I just, I can’t.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and swallowed.

“I understand.”

“You what?”

You glanced at him for a moment.

“He was your friend. They both were. I would never...never want to break a promise to John. Or you.”

“Um, right.” You readjusted in your seat.

“What did you promise Moriarty?”

“Sherlock, the last thing I said to him was that I’d never forgive him. That alone has been eating me from the inside.”

“What did you promise him?”

You clenched your jaw as you bore your eyes forward, relieved to have a functional use for avoiding eye contact with Sherlock.

“I was supposed to be the one to kill him.”

“But this isn’t vengeance.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“No.” You swallowed. “I know you don’t approve of our relationship. But he never should have gone by himself. I was, I was supposed to be there with him. I was supposed to do it.”

“What did he ask you to do with the client list?”

You smirked. “What I do best. Let them destroy each other.”

“He was willing to burn it all.”

“It’s kind of our thing.” You shook your head. “But I won’t have to. Because I will be there with him. I’ll be there for him when it happens for real.”

By the time you arrived back at your cabin, all beings that needed rest were asleep. After Sherlock and John succumbed to slumber, you pulled over and gave Sebastian the driver’s seat.

“You don’t trust me.” She examined you.

“No. But I trust we want the same thing. And are willing to do what we need to get him.”

“True.”

She claimed control of the vehicle and you stared out the window until the darkness faded to dreams.

Dreams of Jim in Hell.

When the Wrangler came to stop, John bolted awake. His blade was to Sebastian’s throat in an instant. 

“This is getting boring,” she droned.

“Follow your master’s example and just kill yourself then?”

“John,” you whined. “Just...stop with the murder.”

“Never thought you’d say that to me.” He slumped back in his seat.

You threw open the door and clamored out of the vehicle. Gently opening the passenger door, you prodded Sherlock awake.

“Bedtime,” you mumbled. 

He groaned in reply. 

“Unless you're willing to let Sebastian carry you, I need you to get out of the car.”

Sherlock grumbled himself to grass. Generously relying on your body for support, he leaned on you as you dragged him through the garden.

But the three of you were alert in an instant at the sight of a figure on your porch. 

Silhouette of a trench coat amply visible.

Sebastian was nowhere to be found.

“Castiel,” you breathed.

The angel closed his eyes for a moment before approaching you.

“I don’t have the information you’re looking for.” He pierced you with his gaze, unsettled by the brightness of your soul.

“Then why are you here?” 

“To give you what you really want.”

“What? No. Why?”

“So I can get what I want.”

Castiel bore his eyes into you as he closed the space between you. You sucked in a breath and stared back as he refused to drop his gaze.

“Dean would never forgive me if I erased him from your memory. But I have an alternative solution. It’s the only way.”

Before anyone could react, Castiel placed two fingers to your forehead. You instinctively slammed your eyes closed. But when you opened them again, Castiel was no longer in front of you.

And you were, instead, looking at Jim Moriarty.

“Jim,” you whispered.

He narrowed his eyes as he examined his surroundings. This was not the picturesque vision he anticipated.

As you took a step forward, Sherlock started to outstretch his arm to thwart your advances. But his muscles froze at the next words from your lips.

“My love, you finally came back to me.”

Sherlock and John could only stare at each other; eyes asking the same questions as you tangled yourself with Moriarty.

_Castiel, what did you do?_

_...and why?_


	8. The Side of the Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: serious dubious consent that we will eventually address.

When Jim Moriarty died, he scowled at the reaper who came to collect his long condemned soul. She cast forlorn eyes on him and drew in a breath; having learned long ago that it was better to mimic human body language.

“James Moriarty. You are—”

“Dead. Don’t be obvious.”

He wrinkled his nose at the mangled face of his abandoned body. But, examining the condition of the rest of him, Jim shrugged.

_Still. Pulling. It. Off._

“Um, yes.” The reaper cleared her throat. “Now, it’s time for me to take you to—”

“My next destination. Do worry yourself. I know exactly where I’m going.”

Boring his eyes into hers, Jim traced the side of her face with his index finger. He lingered on her bottom lip and scrutinized her expression.

“They’ve had my seat waiting for quite some time. I’m sure it’s already warm. And it better be fabulous.”

As the reaper’s mouth hung open, Jim crouched next to his body and examined the burnt sockets of his eyes. It was an even better look for the open casket you teased him about long ago.

Absolutely haunting.

“Who did it?” He furrowed his brow. 

“James.”

She sounded sad, remorseful even.

Jim popped to his feet and performed a few mocking whimpers.

“Yes, it’s all so, so...” His face contorted to rage. “TRAGIC!”

But she didn’t flinch when he lurched forward.

“James, it’s not your concern anymore.”

“But you know who did it.” He narrowed his eyes.

“It’s time to move on.”

“If you can’t tell me who, then tell me what. What does that to a...body?”

“I know you’re scared. But there is nothing left for—”

“Oh, God. If this is what’s left of existence, just send me to Hell already. At least things should be interesting there.”

“As you wish.”

His eyes flew open to a barren cell.

Cement walls. Cement floor. Cement ceiling.

Bars.

A minuscule slot of bars on the metal door that he could see out of. But only if he stood on his toes.

Empty hallway.

“The only King of Hell who needs to wear lifts in his shoes.”

Jim’s heels reunited with the cement.

“What a power complex,” he scoffed.

Jim started pacing the cell, grazing his fingertips over the, ironically, cold stone. The front door opened and a demon popped his head through the opening.

“We’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“Bring me Crowley.”

“Oh,” the demon laughed. “The King doesn’t trouble himself with such trivial matters.”

Jim dashed to the door. But it was closed by the time he arrived. He threw his head back and cackled. But after confirming the hallway was empty, he continued pacing and hummed to himself.

“Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run, see how they run. They all ran after Moriarty’s life. He cut out their eyes with a boning knife. Have you ever seen such a wondrous sight as three blinded mice.”

Placing one palm to the wall, Jim hissed an inhale through his teeth as he started the tedious process of craving three tallies into the cement.

“Who killed Jim Moriarty, Sherlock? Did you already figure it out? Are you that desperate to impress?” 

He spun around and bunched his fingers at his temples. Then threw them out to mimic an explosion.

“Or did it all just blow your delicate mind to pieces?”

Jim continued scratching at the wall. By the time the third tally was complete, his mind was howling for stimulation. His eyes widened at his nails, bloodied and ripped to shreds. Jim bit his lip and traced the blood he stained into the cement wall.

He snickered just as the door opened again.

Jim spun around and screeched at the demon.

“I KNOW! You’ll be with me in a minute. You said the last twenty-three times!”

The demon chuckled.

“Just a bit longer. Not like you have anywhere else to go.”

When the door closed, Jim sucked on the blood from his fingertips. He strode to the other side of the door hinge and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And when he thought he would kill himself again after waiting any longer, the door opened. 

When the demon peeked his head through, Jim slammed his back to the door. He giggled at the crunchy crunch of the meat suit's skull and continued to smash, smash, smash the door as the demon howled in protest.

His body fell to the floor. Jim scowled as the blood started to seep into his cell. He leaped backward.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jim clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side.

“Bring me Crowley.”

“This is the new intake process,” the demon stammered. “You’ll have to work your way up if you want an audience with the King.”

Dancing around the blood, Jim crouched next to the demon. He plucked a pen from the front pocket of the demon’s suit and started churning it through the exposed brain matter.

“But I promise I’m royalty too,” Jim pouted.

“You’ve got another two hundred years of red tape until—”

Jim was standing in the garden.

What...what happened? He certainly wasn’t in Hell anymore.

Woodland. Rampant with nature. Horrific.

But, most interestingly of all, you.

“Jim,” you breathed. 

Sherlock outstretched his arm to shield you. Cute.

But the next words out of your mouth surprised even the king of crime himself.

“My love, you finally came back to me.”

Jim's eyes flickered to Sherlock and John’s horrified expressions. Their faces made you wrapping your arms around his neck all the better. 

You leaned in. The heat of your breath grazed his skin. But before you could connect your lips to his, Jim jerked his head backward.

“Is this…” His gaze darted to Sherlock.

But Jim could only sneer at the fire behind the detective’s eyes.

Helpless. Fire.

“Oh, James,” you cooed. “I know time works differently down there. How long has it been since someone has touched you so?”

You stroked his chest, confirming your suspicions when Jim shuddered and held his breath.

“Sherlock.” John swallowed. “What happened to her?”

“Castiel manipulated her memories. She believes that she and Moriarty are…”

You licked a stripe behind Jim’s ear and whispered. 

“You can do anything you want to me tonight, King James.”

Jim’s breath caught in his throat. He planted his palms to your shoulders and shot you upright.

“You made a deal?” He stared at you with wide eyes.

“No, of course not.” You shook your head. “I tortured an angel into resurrecting you.”

“An...angel?”

“Yes, deep-fried the feathered soldier. And now I have you. I have you back.” 

You looked over your shoulder and furrowed your brow at Sherlock and John.

“Although I admit that I don’t know why the pets are here. Want to watch, boys?”

You leaned in and nipped Jim’s earlobe, snickering as you eyed their mortified faces. Your fingers danced along his tie. Pausing at the knot, you pulled downward to begin leading Jim toward the cabin.

“Moriarty, don’t you dare.” Sherlock bore his eyes into him.

“Is that a threat, virgin?” you sneered.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Something is clearly wrong with her.”

“Who did this to you, my muse?” Jim traced the side of your face with his thumb.

“They’re just jealous that I have you back.”

“The angel Castiel. He distorted her memories,” Sherlock pressed his cause. “We don’t know exactly what he did. This could just as easily backfire on you too.”

“Oh, look at him trying to create a scheme for you to fall into,” you cooed. “Good thing you’re wickedly smart, my beloved James.”

“She’ll never forgive you for taking advantage when we reinstate her memory. And we will retrieve her memories.”

“And what a way to go.” Jim bit his lip and stroked the side of your face.

Sherlock held his breath. He could only stare at Jim with a final request, hating himself for every syllable. 

“James,” his voice cracked. “Please.”

Jim met your gaze again before looking you up and down. He licked his lips and chuckled, eyes transfixed on you over the heartbroken detective.

“Thank you for your overwhelming concern for my well being, Sherlock. But I’ll take my chances.”

As you guided Jim inside, Sherlock withdrew his gun. John was armed in an instant. You matched the gesture with a firearm of your own, aimed directly at John’s head.

“Isn’t this old, Sherlock?” you sang, positioning yourself in front of Jim. “You threatening James and him ready to kill your best friend?”

“Do you have the shot?” John asked.

“I, I can’t, no.” Sherlock’s jaw ticked.

But he sucked in a breath as a familiar red dot danced along John’s chest.

“Walk away, boys,” you hummed. “Unless you’re here to thrill yourselves, we have important business to return to in the morning.”

“You’re, you’re working a case?” Sherlock furrowed his brow, still adjusting his aim.

“You wouldn’t think I’d bring the great James Moriarty to this dumpster for, and pardon the phrasing, the hell of it? No, we’re here to retrieve something very particular and leave.”

“Azrael’s notebook,” Sherlock breathed.

“That ancient thing? I like to make my kills more personal than a few scratchings on parchment. No, we’re after something far more powerful. Now, if I tell you, will you finally leave us be? I’m eager to enjoy this man.”

You could feel the heat of Jim’s breath across the nape of your neck. 

Sherlock drew in an inhale, calculating as many alternative options as he could. There had to be another way. Another way that didn’t involve you and Moriarty—

“Yes,” John commanded.

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open as he whipped his head around to stare at John.

“If you tell us why you’re here,” John repeated, “we’ll leave you alone. Both of you.”

“What do you think, Jim?” You raised your eyebrows.

“They have no chance of outmaneuvering us,” he replied. 

A statement. But equally a question...considering the fact that he too had no heavenly, earthly, nor hellish idea what you were talking about.

“Absolutely not. We hold all the cards, my love. They have no idea where we’re headed after this.”

“Why are you in America?” Sherlock swallowed, ignoring the aching, aching, aching in his chest.

“It’s simple, you brainless detective,” you snickered. “We’re here to retrieve the Mark of Cain.”

You fired a single round. The bullet barely grazed John’s shoulder.

“JOHN!” Sherlock raced to him.

In a blur, you yanked Jim inside your cabin. 

John placed his hand over his wound. Sherlock’s eyes darted all around. But John’s gaze flickered to his jacket pocket.

“I’m fine,” he hissed. “Get, there.”

Sherlock plunged his hand into John’s jacket to retrieve, to his surprise, the keys to the Wrangler.

“Swiped them from the demon.” John gritted his teeth. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sherlock threw open the boot and tossed the medical supplies into the front seat. He guided John to the passenger side—everything was horrifically backward today—and leaped into the driver’s seat. 

Sherlock tried to assist the doctor. But John swatted him away.

“Just get us OUT OF HERE!”

Following orders, Sherlock started the engine and drove. 

Even if he wasn’t exactly sure where to.

In the bunker library, Sam slammed a book closed and tossed it on the pile. With the final tome added, the tower of text met his shoulders from the floor up.

“Dean, I’ve been through every word of every book in here. And there is no documentation on the Mark of Cain. We’ve got nothing to go off of.”

“Then we start calling people. Someone has to know something about this thing.” Dean shoved his laptop aside.

“Who? Who are we supposed to call, Dean? Cas went off the grid again, Crowley doesn’t know anything. Unless you know another primordial being, I think we’re stuck.”

Dean rubbed his eyes and rose to his feet. 

“Look, we’ve been at this for days. Let’s just get some sleep and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

“Do you even sleep?” Sam asked.

“No.” Dean shrugged. “But I’m damn good at trying.”

Sam sucked in a breath and shook his head. He started to stand up just as his mobile rang. Unfamiliar with the number on the caller ID, Sam answered.

“Yeah?”

“Sam Winchester?” 

“Uh, yeah. Who’s this?”

“John Watson.”

Sam hung up. 

“Who was that?” Dean asked.

“Those assholes. The doctor.”

“What? He wouldn’t call you. And don’t you dare talk about The Doctor like that!”

“Dean, that’s just a show.”

In the Wrangler, John glared at the screen. 

“He hung up on me!” 

“Try again,” Sherlock growled.

“STRAIGHT! Just drive straight, Sherlock. Don’t try to turn until we know where the hell we’re going.”

Sam shook his head as his phone rang again. 

“I’m _fine_ with my health cov—”

“Castiel manipulated her memories.”

“Bummer.”

“She thinks she’s in love with Jim Moriarty.”

“Good for h...” Sam’s eyes flickered to Dean. “Them. Good for them.”

“And they’re coming for your brother.”

“Yeah, whatever. Hope you enjoyed your trip to the States. Don’t come back.”

“They’re after the Mark of Cain!”

“They’re what?” Sam put the phone on the desk and turned up the volume. “Say that again. All of it.”

Dean mouthed ‘what’s going on?” but the moment the voice spoke through, he leaned back and dragged his hand down his face. 

“Are you serious?” John asked, infuriating accent and all.

“As a heart attack,” Sam replied, placing his palms to the edge of the desk. “Repeat everything you just said.”

“Castiel manipulated Eve’s memories. He resurrected Jim Moriarty and now—”

“Wait, Moriarty’s the guy who got ganked by an angel?” Dean scoffed.

“Yes, and now—”

“I thought you guys hated him.” Dean cocked an eyebrow. 

“We do! And now he’s back from the dead and Eve thinks she’s in love with him and they’re coming to get the Mark of Cain from you.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he looked at Sam. 

“And she shot me!” John gasped.

“Good luck with the healthcare system here.”

Dean ended the call.

“Dean!” Sam gestured to his mobile.

“What? We can handle her and Lucky the Leprechaun without them.”

“We can’t just leave them running around looking for a hospital.”

“What are you suggesting? They come here instead?”

Sam gave Dean a look, inciting the elder Winchester to throw his hands in the air.

“You’ve gotta be frickin’ kidding me! Just when I thought—”

“Dean, think about it. Cas is the one who changed her memories. But instead of erasing us, he sent her to us. Why?”

“He’s trying to hand off The Mark to a raging psychopath!”

“No, Dean. You know he wouldn’t do that. But there is something going on here. And maybe we should try to get ahead of it for once.”

But, instead of receiving a verbal reply of any sort, Dean strutted to his bedroom. Shaking his head, Sam swiped his mobile from the desk. 

When his phone received a text, John gasped a sigh of relief. 

“We have an address,” he announced, entering it in the GPS.

“How long?”

“Eight hours. Stop at a petrol station and I’ll clean this up.”

Sherlock gave him a nod, having only been honked at once in the last twenty minutes.

“It’s not bad,” John reassured. “She only wanted to distract you.”

“John.” Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Talk to me about anything but…”

“Right.”

John retreated to the toilet with the medical kit to redress his wound. Sherlock tried to help. But, unable to even open the latch due to his fumbling hands, John ordered him to fuel the vehicle instead.

Having endured far worse than a kiss from your bullet, John efficiently bandaged his arm. When he hopped back in the passenger seat, he extended his palm and nodded to Sherlock.

“Hand them over.”

Sherlock tightened his grip around the steering wheel. But John only rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere for the next eight hours. Hand them over.”

Sherlock swallowed and started the engine. 

“When her memories come back,” John continued, “she won’t be able to handle you smelling like smoke.”

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock smacked the carton of cigarettes in John’s hand. The soldier immediately chucked them out the window. 

“RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!” John shouted as Sherlock turned onto the road.

If being on the side of the angels meant waking up like this, Jim Moriarty might have reconsidered his alliance long ago.

Beads of sweat rolled down your chest. The wood of the headboard splintered under your relentless grip. Possessed by a force beyond your control, your hips tilted forward. But Jim clamped down on your thigh.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, sinisterly tucked between your legs as you straddled his face.

“Jim, I, I can’t...”

You lost all sense of the English language as his teeth grazed you in just the right—

He withdrew. 

“You are trying to kill me!” you shrieked.

“You’d be my favorite victim.”

Admittedly, Jim wasn’t used to entering the human body via natural cavities. But the landscape of yours was, even if God-given, a delight to him.

James Moriarty was an expert in pressure. 

When to apply. 

Where. 

How much.

It was quite hellish for you.

When you lost all sense of time, your back was pressed to the sweat-stained sheets. With a straight mouth and burning intensity in his eyes, Jim slid off the bed. He rolled out his neck and scanned the length of your body.

Knowing it had _never_ experienced the sensations it had in the past...well, no matter how many minutes, it was longer. 

Surely.

“Tell me about the Mark of Cain,” he mused.

“What did they do to your beautiful mind down there?”

“You should know that all parts of me are quite intact.” He tilted his head to the side and licked his lips. “But the...ascension was unexpected. If I were ordinary, you could even call it jarring.”

“Ah, yes.” 

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Hands gripping the mattress, you leaned forward and smirked.

“We have an eight-hour drive ahead of us. Allow me to reacclimate you.”

At the bunker, you clamored down the stairs covered in blood.

“Dean!” you screamed. “Jim, Jim’s back…”

You stumbled down the last few stairs as you painted scarlet across the floor. Dean rushed out to greet you, eyes blowing wide open at your horrific state.

“SAM!” he called out.

With the utmost delicacy, they lifted your broken body and carried you to the infirmary. But the moment you hit the cot, they started strapping you down. Arms, legs, torso, hips. The Winchesters left no option for you to move.

“What are you doing to me?!” you shrieked.

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.” 

As Dean secured your bindings, Sam started patting you down. He withdrew your angel blade, gun, several knives, and a second firearm from a few expected and one unexpected location.

When he was finished, Dean leaned back and tapped his forearm.

“And neither is this.”

“How did you…”

But you sucked in a breath as Sherlock and John stepped into view.

“You four don’t even know each other.” You scowled. “How’s the arm, soldier?”

“These inconsistencies aren’t an accident,” Sherlock said. “Your memory has been altered.”

“I remember everything important. The only reason I know who you are is because James has some peculiar fascination with you.”

Dean strapped your forehead down and forced your skull backward. Crouching next to you, his eye level met yours.

“Where is he?”

“You need a lot more oomph if you think I’m going to hand over information to you, Winchester.”

“That’s alright.” He rose to his feet. “We’ll find him. We always find the monsters.”

“I’m not here to fight.” You writhed as much as you could, testing the security of your captivity.

“No, you’re just here to manipulate me into passing this thing off to a short stack nutjob!”

Sam removed his phone from his ear and shook his head.

“Still no word from Cas?” Dean asked.

“Dean, I have no idea what’s going on. I’m going to text Rowena and see if she knows anything about memory manipulation.”

“Don’t.” Sherlock outstretched his hand. 

“What?” Dean scowled at him. “If this is your form of a break-up...dude, c’mon.”

“You can’t revert her memory yet. We have to know the story Castiel wrote in her mind.”

“You’re going to dig through her brain for clues? Well let me just get the magnifying glass.”

“There is vital informa—”

“I’m not leaving her like this any longer than she has to be!”

“There is nothing wrong with me!” you screamed.

“Yes, there is,” Dean and Sherlock protested in unison.

“If any one of you touches my memories of Jim, I will filet the skin from your bodies!”

“Dean.” Sam waved his phone in the air. “Rowena will be here in a few days.”

“Tell her to make it one,” Dean growled. 

He stepped forward and rammed a finger to Sherlock’s chest. Other hand balling into a fist, no one could see the gentle glow of The Mark under his sleeve.

“You aren’t going to make this worse, pretty boy. If you so much as sneeze in her direction—”

“You’ll kill me?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. And I will enjoy it.”

“Sherlock, let just...we’ll figure this out.” John guided the detective out of the room.

In the hallway, Sherlock bore his eyes into John.

“We have to find her angel,” Sherlock said.

“She told us not to. She wouldn’t want this.”

“He’s the only one she trusted. We don’t even know who this Rowena is. Much less, or more importantly, her intentions.”

Pursing his lips, John put his hands on his hips and peered into the infirmary. You reeled your head back as far as you could and spat in Dean’s general direction. He outstretched his arms in reply. But you only snickered at him.

“John,” Sherlock continued. “We don’t know what else he did to her mind. What if her memory continues to change? What if she...what if she completely forgets…”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and stared at the floor. Before his thoughts could linger, he sucked in a breath and looked back at John.

“The angel will fix her. He has to.”

“Sherlo—”

But the detective was already marching to the library.

He would find your angel.

Since he surely wasn’t one of them.


	9. Dean Loves a Siren

While Sherlock soaked in his first vision of Irene Adler, you were straddling Dean Winchester’s lap and begging for mercy.

Well, it sure looked like you.

In the sitting room of its latest victim, the shifter pressed its body against Dean and stroked the side of his face. 

“Isn’t this what you want, Dean? You don’t have to hurt me.”

The shifter pressed its lips—your lips—to Dean’s. He couldn’t help but return the favor. But after a far-too-indulgent moment, he jerked his head back.

“No, this isn’t, you’re not—”

“You saved me,” the creature mewled. “You’re my hero.”

It continued to trace desperate kisses along his jawline and neck. Dean shifted on the couch and reached for his gun. But he froze when he realized—

“You didn’t think I’d let you get this close without doing my homework?” the shifter sneered.

Dean shoved the monster from his lap and sprang to his feet. It leaped backward on the coffee table and slammed a roundhouse kick to his jaw. Dean toppled back down to his seat.

The monster pounced on him—with far different intentions this time.

It yanked Dean upward by the collar of his shirt before slamming its fist to his face. His hands flew to the shifter’s throat. But its eyes—your fucking eyes—pleaded for mercy.

“No, Dean! Don’t hurt me. Not like all the others. Please, I thought you were different!”

His muscles froze. 

“Oh, you are easy,” it sneered.

With a growl, Dean slammed the shifter to the coffee table. 

“Not for a dumb bitch like you.”

He lifted it up by the lapels of your leather jacket and pounded its skull to the table.

“That’s it,” it hissed. “Let out those repressed feelings of rejection, Dean.”

Face scrunched in fury, he continued to wail his fists on the monster. It’s bones crunched in reply.

“Where is she?!” Dean bellowed.

“She’s thought about it, you know.” The shifter gasped for air. “But no matter how much she does the math, you never make the cut.”

“What did you do to her?!”

Clumps of scalp and hair smeared the table. The smirk on the shifter’s lips contorted as the facade broke to pieces.

“I can tell you what she won’t,” it panted. “Why she can’t trust you.”

Dean yanked the disintegrating shifter to its feet.

“I’m going to ask you one last time, you cheap remake. Where is she?”

“Who says I left her alive?”

The shifter’s body twitched as Sam fired three silver bullets into its heart from behind. Mouth hanging open, Dean flung the corpse to the floor. He threw his hands in the air and spun around.

“Well it took you long enough!”

“Dean, I’m so—”

But Dean was already running upstairs, ready to rip the house to the studs to find you. 

Any part of you.

Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an abundance of profanity later, Dean threw open the door to a closet and your body collapsed onto him. With wide eyes, he examined the cruelly arranged space that left no room for you to recline your aching muscles and bones.

Dean carefully propped you upright. His eyes darted between the cuts and bruises across your skin. 

“I’m fine,” you coughed, handing him his unloaded gun.

Sam rushed into the room with a mixture of remorse and terror written across his face. But you cleared your throat and pushed Dean away. They exchanged a glance as they watched you limp to the door.

“Does it still have my face?”

“Um, yeah,” Sam replied.

“Good. The more people who think I’m dead, the better.”

With a groan, you looked over your shoulder and furrowed your brow. 

“It made you feel badly for hurting me?”

“Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat. “Something like that.”

“What a manipulative bitch.”

You dragged your unwilling body to the Impala and the three of you headed back to Kansas. 

Three months later, you and Sam were sitting across from each other with your noses buried in your laptops. When Dean pranced down the stairs, you slammed yours closed and cleared your throat.

“Man, it is a wonderful day to be alive.” Dean swiped a beer from the fridge. He sauntered to you, leaning on the edge of the table and taking a sip.

“What’s got you so chipper?” You cocked an eyebrow, reaching for the bottle.

He leaned back and took another sip before walking to his room. In the doorway, Dean turned around and gave you a two fingered salute.

“Y’know, there are some incredibly beautiful women in this world.”

Sam checked the time on his laptop.

“Dude, it’s 2pm on a Tuesday. Who’s working the day shift at the strip club?”

“Get your mind outta the gutter!” Dean threw out his free hand. “Gorgeous women aren’t exclusively reduced to taking off their clothes for desperate, lonely men. And you call yourself a feminist.”

Sam rolled his eyes with a laugh as Dean strutted to his bedroom.

Two days later, you and Sam were sitting across from each other in the library. He held up his thumbs and index fingers as you narrowed your eyes at the goal. You flicked the paper football but missed.

“Damn it!”

“Drink up,” he snickered.

You took a swig of beer.

“33 victims. Young men and boys. Lured them to his home and used a magic trick ruse to get his victims into handcuffs before attacking them. Used a garrote for strangulation.”

Sam bit his lip and furrowed his brow.

“Oh!” Your eyes lit up. “Also performed at children’s hospitals and charitable events as a clown.”

“Clowns? Really?” 

“I’m playing dirty, Winchester.”

He narrowed his eyes and studied your expression. After a moment, he clicked his tongue and pointed at you.

“John Wayne Gacy.”

“Damn it.” You took another sip of beer.

Sam swiped the paper football from his side of the table as you readied the goal. He scored flawlessly.

You dragged your hand down your face and polished off your bottle.

“I swear, Sam. It’s like you’re trying to get me drunk.”

“Or you’re just really bad at finger football.” He leaned back in his chair. “Home invasion crime spree that terrorized Los Angeles. Fourteen victims. Claimed to be a Satanist.”

“Oh, did you ask Lucy if Richard Ramirez was a true believer?”

“Man, I even left out the Night Stalker bit.” Sam took a swig of beer.

“SAMMY!” Dean pranced into the doorway and threw out his hands. “I am in love.”

“What Kool-Aid have you been drinking?” Sam cocked an eyebrow.

“I found her. She’s the one.” Dean smashed Sam’s cheeks between his palms. “I’ve never met a more beautiful woman in my life.”

Sam shoved Dean from him and shook out his face. 

“Yeah, whatever, man. I don’t want any details.”

“But Sam. This woman. You have to see her—”

Before anyone, including you, could process what you were doing, you smashed your beer bottle against the edge of the desk. You sprang to your feet and jabbed the bottle in Dean’s direction. Sam scrambled to block your access.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He held out his palms.

“If I ever hear you reducing women to their body parts, Dean Winchester, I will gladly do the same to you,” you spat.

“Easy there, Troublemaker. No need to be jealous.”

“Dean.” Sam glared at him. After a moment, he returned his gaze to you and took a deep breath. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Of course not,” you growled. “Your brother is a moron.”

“Eve, really. Listen to me. No one is going to hurt you.”

Your eyes flitted around Sam’s face. But after a few moments of holding your breath, you disarmed and set the broken bottle back to the desk.

“I mean, if you’re that concerned, you could just join us next time.” Dean scratched the back of his head.

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Get something to clean this up.”

“I’d have to ask first, but—”

Sam dragged him out of the room. 

In the hallway, Sam shoved Dean’s shoulders.

“What the hell was that about?!”

“It’s not my fault she’s gettin’ riled up!”

“Dean, that was not jealousy.”

“Say what you want, Dr. Phil. But it looked to me like someone caught a bit of—”

“You’re being a real jerk right now! She won’t tell us what happened with that asshole. But he messed her up. And not just her body. You’re setting her off. Big time.”

But Dean, thoughts wandering elsewhere, was blissfully glancing around the air. 

“Just get out of here.” Sam shoulder checked him as he strutted to pick up a broom. “If she tries to attack you again, I’m not stepping in.”

You and Sam committed to ignoring Dean for the next week. But Sam started worrying on Day Four.

That morning, Dean assaulted his bacon in the frying pan. He threw his head back with a shameless grin as the fat crackled away.

“I’m telling you, Sammy. She is perfect. Everything I could have ever wanted.”

Sam choked down his sip of coffee. 

“You said she’s...perfect?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t have even imagined someone so damn perfect. It’s like she was made for me.”

“Does this mythical creature have a name?” You rolled your eyes.

“Why, yes she does.” Dean glanced back at you and cocked an eyebrow. “Riley.”

Your mug slipped through your hands and smacked to the floor. Hot coffee searing your thighs, you leaped backward and hissed an inhale.

“Fuck!” 

You ripped off your jeans and tossed them aside. Standing on the other side of the table from Sam, you waved your hands over your legs to cool them off.

“Are you—” Sam started.

But you held up a finger and nodded your head.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You winced.

Sam retrieved a couple of washcloths and ran them under some cool water. He handed them to you and you placed them over your burns as you sat back down. Leaning your head back, you gasped in relief.

“Got a real butterfingers here,” Dean called out.

“Dean!” you and Sam chided together.

“I’m just saying, now that you have evidence she’s a real person and not just a figment of my imagination, you’re looking mighty threatened.”

“Dean, stop.” You dragged your index fingers over your eyebrows.

Holding his plate of freshly cooked breakfast, Dean scowled at you and Sam.

“I’m going to enjoy this where I’m no longer being criticized.”

When Dean was out of the kitchen, Sam raised his eyebrows at you.

“Old cover ID?”

“Something like that,” you grumbled.

Clearing his throat, Sam leaned forward and spoke lowly.

“I think we’ve got a case.”

“A case?”

“I’ve seen this before. We have...Dean and I.”

“Sam, Dean is just fixated on some flavor of the month. I give it two weeks. Tops.”

“Just go with me to check it out. Just in case.”

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes.

When Dean left later that day, you and Sam tailed him into town in a stolen, no, borrowed vehicle. But you sucked in a breath when Dean parked outside—

“The police station?” 

You glanced at Sam. But he could only shrug in reply.

Dean strutted inside with the biggest grin across his face. At least, the biggest you ever saw on him.

But it wasn’t until he walked out of the station that every one of Sam’s suspicions was confirmed.

“Don’t you dare say it.” You slammed your eyes closed.

“She looks…”

“Sam.”

“She looks just like you.”

“Damn it!” You smacked the steering wheel and glared at him. “He’s being a brat.”

“No, this is definitely a—”

When Dean was done kissing Riley, he stared right at you and Sam across the street. You both instinctively ducked. But it was too late.

“I think we’ve been made,” Sam grumbled.

“No shit.”

Dean was already knocking on the driver’s seat window. Grinding your teeth, you rolled it down and glared at him.

“You were a terrible spy. No wonder you ended up like you did.” He smirked. 

“We were just worried about you,” Sam replied before you could.

“Well it’s about time you meet my girl.” He patted Riley on the back. “You’re the detective. I’m sure you can figure out exactly who these suckers are.”

“Sam, Eve.” She nodded to you. “It’s a pleasure.”

“You’re a detective?” You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes, just transferred from out of state. Homicide unit.”

“Yeah.” Dean beamed at her. “She’s investigating the case of that guy who murdered his wife.”

“What case?” Sam asked. “You never mentioned any—”

“Guess you’re not doing your research.” Dean shrugged. “But don’t worry, Sammy. Riles is on it.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is.” Sam clenched his jaw.

You watched Sam glare at Riley. But after the tension grew too thick to bear, you cleared your throat.

“How did you two meet?”

“Diner down the street.” She smiled. “Tried talking to the victim's best friend. But she wasn’t giving me anything. Not until Dean stepped in and helped me out. Really saved my ass.”

Riley wrapped her arm around Dean’s waist. He leaned in closer and smirked. 

“Infinitely worth saving.”

“Now I’ve got a former FBI agent to look after me, I’ve never felt safer.”

Sam was possessed by a coughing fit. With wide eyes, you started smacking his back until his breath returned to normal.

“Well, we’ll leave you two to your, um, daytime activities,” you said. “It was good to meet you.”

“It was good to meet you too, Eve.”

You grimaced at Dean and Riley as you started the engine and returned to the bunker.

“That was disgusting.” You scowled as you walked down the stairwell. “The fucking PDA.”

“He’s going to try to kill you.” 

“What?” You spun around.

“She’s a siren.”

“A siren? Luring in Dean the sailor with the sound of her song? Very funny, Sam. Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous. Need a wingwoman to help you get some action?”

With a scoff, you continued down the stairs. But when you were both on the floor, Sam grabbed your wrist and spun you around.

“I’m serious.”

“Sam, he’s just in like. Why he would fall for a detective of all occupations is a little baffling to me. But I say we just let him ride this out, or her out to work out his issues. Again, two weeks. Tops.”

“We’ve only seen this once before. But I know she’s one of them. The guys before killed their partners, said they met their dream girl, absolutely perfect, the previous murder, and this.”

Sam held up a photo of Riley’s reflection in the side mirror of the car: her true form amply evident. With wide eyes, you yanked the phone from his hand and stared at the screen.

“This is…” You looked back at him. “You could have led with that.”

You shoved to mobile back to his grasp.

“What do we do now?”

“Sirens love to cause chaos. I’m sure she’s going to ask him to kill you soon. We just need to get some of Dean’s blood in her to finish her off.”

“His blood?”

“Yeah.” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Toxin she put in his blood is poisonous to her.”

“Like a supernatural STD?”

Sam smirked. “Yeah, just like one.”

Now, Sam watched you grunt and groan as you were tied up in a chair in the bunker. He straddled one backward across from you. With Dean on the other side of the locked door, no one was going in or out of that room.

“Why do you want the Mark of Cain?” Sam asked.

“All that time playing guess the serial killer when you had one sitting across from you. You two really couldn’t make it as FBI.”

“Is it for you or Jim Moriarty?”

“Look at you trying to interrogate. Better get the detective in here to give it a go.”

“Not happening.” Sam shifted in his seat.

“Do you remember the case we worked together?”

“Pretty shitty of your partner to just leave you here.”

“Oh, you’ll have to try harder than that, Sam. James is a psychopath. He does not have the capacity to love me as a person. Merely a thing he enjoys.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“He’s not my first. But certainly my best.”

“Going to use the Mark to supercharge a murder spree?”

You flashed him a sinister smile and tilted your head to the side. 

“I never told you what that siren said to me after I impaled her with Dean’s blood.”

Sam’s gaze flickered to you. You licked your lips and chuckled.

“She said that while I may pretend to be one of them, I’ll always be the real monster. Just like your murderous, idiot brother.”

Sam sprang to his feet and shoved the chair out from under him. He threw his hands to his hair and drew in a deep breath.

“DEAN!” He banged on the door.

It flew open in an instant.

“Do I look tall, dumb, and filled with rage, boy?”

“Rowena,” Sam gasped.

“She just got here.” Dean rolled his eyes.

Rowena cocked an eyebrow. “He’s not here?”

“She. She’s inside.” Sam gestured to you behind him.

“Right, the girl. Let’s take a look.”

Rowena’s heels clicked on the floorboards as she entered your room. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smirked at you.

“My, James does like them beautiful.”

She traced the side of your face with her index finger. 

“After all, I should know.”


	10. Witch's Brew

As Rowena picked at the remnants of her dessert, she smiled at the three witches sitting across from her.

“The structure of the Grand Coven is archaic,” she scoffed. “A single high priestess to reserve all power? Whatever happened to democracy?”

Two of the witches glanced at the one in the middle.

“Are you honestly suggesting a democratic regime, Rowena?” she asked. “You’re not exactly known for your humility.”

“Why, Beathas, I’ve become quite humble after centuries on my own.”

Rowena placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. 

Beathas opened her mouth to speak. But Rowena’s mobile started vibrating upon the pristine table cloth. Her eyes widened at Sam’s name on the caller ID.

“Need to get that?” Beathas mused.

“No.” Rowena flipped over the screen. “You have my undivided attention.”

“Good, because you’re going to need every bit of brainpower for this.”

The witches on either side of Beathas smirked.

“You haven’t been relevant since Osman III was the sultan of the Ottoman Empire and we’ve only read about him in textbooks...centuries after his death. Not only are your manipulations transparent, but they’re overdone. Stop trying to relive your glory decades, Rowena. You’re only embarrassing yourself.”

Beathas pushed out her chair and rose to her feet. The gesture was accompanied by the sounds of her companions snickering. She glanced at Rowena’s phone as it continued to rattle on the table.

“Why don’t you get back to hide and seek with the Winchesters? They seem better fit for your capabilities these days.”

Rowena snapped her jaw closed and forwarded the call to voicemail. She swallowed as the three witches turned their backs to her. When they exited the restaurant, she texted Sam.

“Ready to give me the Book of the Damned?”

_ No...But I need your help. _

“So you can chain me up again? A girl’s got standards, Samuel _. _ ”

_ What do you know about memory manipulation? _

Rowena rolled her eyes as she typed a scathing response about the limited memory (and mental capacities) of the entire Winchester clan. But Sam sent a far more interesting follow-up message before she could hit send.

_ Or a guy named Jim Moriarty? _

Rowena could feel her heartbeat quicken within her chest. Perhaps this day was not lost yet. She licked her lips and replied.

“I might know of him.”

_ Can you fix someone’s memories if they’ve been altered? _

She paused. 

Waiting. 

Waiting. 

Waiting. 

_ You can have the Codex. _

“Oh, Samuel.” Rowena clicked her tongue. “Bolder does not make you a better liar.”

Exiting the restaurant, she replied that she would think about it over the next few days. But Rowena was already on her way to Kansas. 

While Beathas’ insides turned to liquid.

Now, Rowena stood in front of your two sets of Hardy Boys. She flipped through her spellbook with a few ingredients prepared in a basin.

“Memory manipulation is a tricky art, boys. But luckily for you, you have the assistance of the most powerful witch on the planet.”

“A witch.” John crossed his arms. “And you, you perform magic?”

“If it’s you who’s asking, darling, I can perform anything you like.” Rowena winked at him.

“Been using that line for six hundred years?” Dean asked.

“Oh, you poor boy,” Rowena chided. “I wouldn’t expect you to have what it takes to handle a woman with experience.”

Dean’s eyes widened as Rowena redirected her gaze to John. 

“You, however…”

“Alright,” Sam cleared his throat. “Just what does, what does this spell entail?”

“What are the risks?” Sherlock asked. He narrowed his eyes at her. “And what are your qualifications?”

“Ah…” Rowena mused. “You’re the real lover.”

“C’mon, you’re making me gag.” Dean scowled.

“Friend.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’m her, she’s my friend.”

Rowena placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. 

“What the handsome angel did to her cannot be undone. At least not with my magic. If we want to restore her memories, we have to find them again.” 

“So getting her memories back is like finding a needle in a haystack?” Sam asked.

“More like a particular needle in a stack of needles.”

“Fantastic!” John threw out his hands. “So we’re just going to take her mind and plug and play different memories. All while hoping the real ones stick?”

“I may be beautiful but I’m not stupid. There are ways to refine the search.” Rowena raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah? Such as?” Dean goaded. “How long does it take you to get to the fricken punchline?”

“Don’t mistake me for a helpful person, Dean Winchester. You keep that attitude and I’m walking out the door.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam held up his hands. “Just tell us what you need, Rowena. And we’ll do it.”

“For one, a little respect,” she spat.

“Done.” Sherlock bore his eyes into her.

“I like these two.” Rowena eyed Sherlock and John. “I can see why she upgraded.”

“Rowena,” Dean growled.

“First, I have to dial in on the potential realities. When I find ours, I'll select our timeline. So if anyone has requests for changes...”

“Keep her the same.” Sherlock glared at her.

Rowena smirked. “Very well then. The final ingredient is what will bring about her natural memories.” 

The witch stepped to the other side of the table. She leaned back and crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at Sam.

“What was your favorite memory with her?” 

“Um, I-I don’t know.”

“Think, Samuel.”

Sam drew in a breath and bit his lip. He shrugged and looked around the room.

“We liked to do research together. I would look for cases and she stalked some guy through whatever systems she had set up. We would just sit for hours, not talking. But not talking together.”

“Can you think of a particular instance?” Rowena asked.

“Um, yeah.”

“Close your eyes and focus. Focus on that memory.”

Sam swallowed and glanced at Dean. But when his brother only stared back, he did as instructed. Sam closed in his eyes and allowed the clicking of your keyboards to fill his mind as he remembered one particular afternoon of beer assisted research.

That was the day you started your tradition of serial killer trivia.

“Do you have a clear image?” Rowena took a step forward.

“Yeah, sure. I got—OW!”

Dean lurched forward as Rowena sliced Sam’s palm with a blade. She smirked as she spun around to grab a small bowl. As Sam’s mouth hung open, she held out the dish and nodded.

“In you go.”

Grimacing, Sam squeezed his palm so the blood dripped into the receptacle.

“You could have warned me,” he grunted.

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Rowena batted her eyelashes...at John.

When she received her desired amount of sacrifice, Rowena set the bowl aside so Sam could wash his hand. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. But after a moment, the detective drew in a breath and narrowed his eyes at the witch.

“I assume you’ll need multiple samples.”

“Well, if you’re volunteering.” She smirked. “Willing  _ and _ smart. These two really are—”

“Save it,” Dean interrupted.

He already had his knife out.

Dean, Sherlock, and John followed suit. Each of them chose a particular memory to initiate the extraction of their blood. Dean sliced through his palm whereas Sherlock and John extracted blood from each other with syringes they stole from the infirmary.

“Such scientists,” Rowena hummed.

“Careful there.” Dean wrinkled his nose. “Your drool is going to get in the way of the spellwork.”

“I’m no amateur.” She whipped her head around and scowled at him.

When the blood offerings were complete, Rowena started strutting to your room (turned prison cell). She commanded Sam and Dean to carry her supplies, uninterested in their wounded hands.

“Don’t. Drop. Anything.” She glared at them before leading the way.

“How will we know if everything is the same? Even the slightest difference in her memories could result in personality changes,” John asked.

“That’s what your blood is for. When we find the correct reality, the final ingredient will anchor her. She’s testing all of you.”

“Testing?” Dean glared at her.

“Yes, whoever’s memory creates the most powerful emotional connection will allow her natural memories to take root.”

“And the memories she’s most recently accrued? Will she still…” Sherlock failed to finish the question. 

Outside your door, Rowena spun around and examined Sherlock. “We’ll just have to see.”

Before she could linger on the detective’s somber face, Rowena threw open the door just as you broke free from your bindings. 

“Manate!” the witch commanded.

Before you could attack, your feet were pinned to the floor.

“You’ll never steal my memories of Jim!” you shrieked.

“Oh no, dear.” Rowena clicked her tongue. “I’m just giving you back what’s rightfully yours.”

Sam and Dean set the supplies on a table in front of you. Rowena strode to the other side and began her incantations as you continued to growl at her.

“Are we really going to let her do this?” John whispered.

“She’s getting something in return. But only if she upholds her end of the bargain.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

You snarled at Rowena.

“I am going to take your skin and—”

But you snapped your jaw shut as your (and Rowena’s) eyes blazed violet.

John jerked backward and glanced at Sam. 

“It’s, that’s normal.” The hunter grimaced. “I think.”

“I have access to her memory vault,” Rowena called out. 

Looking upward, the witch started traversing the terrain of potential timelines—as if fine tuning a microscopically specific radio.

One that channeled right through you.

Her hands danced through the air and your face twitched in reply. After flipping through a few options, Rowena smirked. Your eyes widened as you looked at Sherlock. But the expression wasn’t one of recognition.

“Hey there, pretty eyes.” You batted your eyelashes. “You look a bit like this magician I once hate fu—”

“Wrong dimension.” Rowena twisted her hand in the air.

Your eyes snapped forward again. 

Rowena continued to manipulate the reality within your mind, narrowing in on the one that was otherwise shared by everyone in the room. At one point, you muttered that you should have never left the Shire. Then you glared at Dean and threw out your arms.

“They should just make Destiel canon already!”

“Rowena! How many times are we going to sift through—”

“Patience.” She could feel herself getting closer.

John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock.

“Did you research the angels?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The texts are written to worship, not report. I’m sure Gabriel isn’t the majestic trumpeter the lore claims he is.”

“You know that means…”

John looked at Sam and Dean.

“I’m not consulting the hunters,” Sherlock growled.

“But what if the angel could just reverse what Castiel did? Their powers work differently than...whatever this is. There would be less room for error.”

His eyes darted around the room as Rowena’s basin continued to glow. 

“I heard that,” Rowena sang.

You shuddered and looked at Dean. 

“Dean! I’m not going undercover as a stripper no matter how much you want to see it!”

Rowena cocked an eyebrow and Dean flushed bright red. 

“Did that ever happen?” she asked.

“No! Not...not like that at least.” He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“We’re getting closer.” Rowena swiped her hand through the air. 

Sherlock’s jaw tightened as your neck jerked back and forth. But when he was forced to draw in an inhale—he didn’t even know he was holding his breath—your eyes flashed white before returning to their natural color.

“I found her,” Rowena announced.

“Sherlock.” You stared at him with wide eyes. “Where...why are we at the bunker?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked.

“I, um,” you swallowed and glanced to the side. “Azrael’s notebook. We stole it from Shrike. What...Sherlock, what happened?”

As you tried to step toward him, your feet remained frozen in place. You glared at the floorboards and jerked as hard as you could. Panic written across your face, you looked at Sherlock and John before scanning the rest of the room.

“What did I do wrong?” you whispered.

Sherlock looked at Rowena. 

“Can we, you…” He cleared his throat and gestured to your feet.

“You’ll thank me in a moment,” the witch replied.

She added Dean’s blood to the basin. Your eyes flashed scarlet before returning to their normal color once again. You shook your head and focused your attention on Dean.

“I’m so, I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

“Um, sorry for what?” Dean leaned his head back, avoiding Sherlock’s burning gaze.

“I should have never left you.” You glanced down and bit your lip. “Especially not after, not after…”

John planted a firm grip on Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective clenched his jaw. Speaking with caution, Dean shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“After...after what exactly?”

“After you said you loved me.”

“That never happened!” Dean and Sherlock shouted.

Rowena flicked her wrist and you slammed your eyes closed.

“Shall we try again?” she smirked. “Skip right to punchline this time?”

Rowena raised her eyebrows at Sherlock. But he looked down and shook his head.

“No, it can’t. Not me. It has to be…” He gestured to John. “It can’t be me.”

“Well, then. The beautiful soldier it is.” 

She ejected John’s blood into the bowl.


	11. Memento

When Sam and Dean found you, Castiel only had enough power to partially heal your injuries. For months, you insisted on keeping to yourself; adjusting surprisingly well to the fact that an Angel of the Lord healed you back from death itself. 

But when you were finally strong enough to leave the bunker, Sam took it upon himself to take you clothes shopping.

“Are you going to drink wine and paint each other’s nails when you get back?” Dean snickered.

“Dean, shut up.” Sam scowled. “I’m taking the car.”

“When you get back, she better not smell like Malibu Barbie!”

At the shop, you scanned your environment from behind your sunglasses. You scurried past a rack of silk dressing gowns, ignoring the twisting knots in your stomach. 

Cautiously approaching a rack of trousers, you extended your fingers outward. But when they graced the fabric, you instantly retracted your touch.

Sam chuckled. “They’re not going to bite you or anything.”

With wide eyes, your gaze flickered to him for just a moment. But you quickly redirected your focus and started examining your clothing options more closely.

“I don’t know what you usually wear…” Sam scratched the back of his head.

“Whatever he wants me to,” you murmured under your breath.

Sam furrowed his brow as you rifled through a few options for trousers. But after a moment of studying your peculiar behavior, you swiped a few pairs to try on.

You dashed to the fitting room and latched the door shut. Spinning around, you stared at your selections. Your muscles refused to move. But upon a knock on the door, you flinched and reached for the knife you stole from the bunker kitchen. 

Holding your breath, you pressed your back to the wall and readied your stance.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean called out. “Got something you might like.”

“Why are you here?”

“Didn’t want to miss out on the fun.”

“You’re not allowed to dress me.”

“Easy there. Just wanted to help out.”

He slid a few options under the door. 

You emerged from the fitting room with a couple of t-shirts and jeans draped over the crook of your arm. At a rack of women’s blouses, Dean spun around with a magenta option held to his chest.

“Sam doesn’t think I can pull it off.” He winked at you.

Hands in his pockets, Sam snickered and shook his head.

“You’re the tiebreaker.” Dean raised his eyebrows.

You narrowed your eyes at him and strode to the cash desk. Sam already gave a credit card to the clerk. As she scanned the last item from your meager pile, Dean threw a leather jacket onto the counter.

“Trust me.” He smirked at you. “You’ll want this too.”

You were completely silent for the entire ride back to the bunker.

The next morning, you swung the door to your room open just as Dean raised his fist to knock. He leaned his head back and recalibrated his expression.

“Oh, um…” Dean looked you up and down with a grin. “It fits.”

You shoved your hands in the pockets of your new outerwear and stared at the floor. 

“Yeah, you have an eye for sizes.”

“S’not my only talent.”

“I’m sure.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Listen, I’m sure you’ve felt pretty naked the past few weeks.”

“The shirts you gave me were fine.”

“I’m not talking about…” Dean put his hand in his back pocket and shook his head. After a sideways glance, he withdrew a firearm and handed it to you.

You scrutinized his expression for a moment. But after reading the intention behind his eyes, you cautiously outstretched your hand and wrapped your fingers around his offering. 

Gaze locked with his, your breath caught in your throat.

“How did you know?” you whispered.

“I just…” He released his grip. “Takes one to know one.”

You set the gun on the nightstand. Just as Dean turned to exit your room, you reached out and tugged on the cuff of his sleeve.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

But as you rejected that moment, the morning that started your friendship, Dean dragged his uncut hand down his face. Rowena added John’s blood to the basin. But all Dean could think was how he wished he chose the night he caught you singing  _ Devil sway _ . 

Except he replayed that memory so many times, he wasn’t sure how much of it was real.

Now, he sat across from you in the War Room of the bunker. Dean rested his hands on the table and leaned forward.

“Werewolf,” he demanded.

“Silver bullet to the heart…” You furrowed your brow and looked at Sam. “What’s going on? Guys, it’s me. Not possessed or anything. You haven’t even tried holy water or silver. Test me. I’m me.”

On the other side of the room, Sherlock and John exchanged agitated whispers.

“I don’t understand,” John said. “Why would the witch leave without confirming everything was fine? Didn’t she need something from them?”

He nodded to the Winchesters. Sherlock drew in a breath and watched your interrogation with Dean.

“Whoever called her had something more promising.”

“Something’s not right. She’s too...”

“Happy.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance just as Dean called them over. John stood behind him and crossed his arms. You narrowed your eyes at their scrutinizing gazes as Sherlock paced to your side of the table.

“You remember these guys?” Dean asked.

“Of course,” you laughed. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I live with them. What is going on?”

“And the nature of your relationship?” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Um, they’re my friends. Kind of.”

Sherlock hooked his arm around your throat. Rising to your feet, you gripped his forearm and slammed your heel to his shin. When he buckled over, you jammed your elbow into his face and spun around with your gun aimed.

“Still has her tactical skills,” he coughed.

“What the fuck is going on?” You redirected your aim as Dean rose to his feet. 

He held up his palms. “Where did you get that?”

“Sam. What is going on?”

Sam’s jaw ticked as his gaze flickered to Dean. But after a pained breath, he looked into your eyes and swallowed.

“Castiel did something to your memories.”

“What did he do?” you asked.

Sam glanced at Sherlock; who was still standing behind you. With wide eyes, the detective shook his head. 

“We, we don’t know,” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

You set your firearm on the table and sat back down. Crossing your arms, you slammed your heels to the table and shook your head.

“Go ahead. What do you want to know?”

“Your name?” John cleared his throat. 

“You can continue calling me Eve.”

“What can you tell us about your childhood?” Dean asked.

“Going to ask about my feelings next?” You cocked an eyebrow. “Raised a hunter. Hated it. Left the moment I could.”

“And after that?” Sam followed-up.

“I joined the military and was eventually recruited by the CIA.”

Sherlock and John stared at each other. But Sam and Dean only shrugged and asked you to continue.

“Shall I just skip to the parts you want to know?” You spun your finger through the air. “I was sent in to extract an asset from an international human trafficking ring. But he betrayed me and pinned me as a double agent. I went to London to try to stop the asshole but ran into these two instead. They helped me create a targeted campaign to take down his operation and I’ve been shacking up there ever since.”

Sherlock bore his eyes into Dean. Through gritted teeth, he growled at the hunter.

“Leave.”

“What? She seems fine,” Dean scoffed. “I think whatever Rowena did worked.”

“I told you guys, I’m fine.” You shrugged.

Sherlock threw his palms to the table and glared at Dean. “Get out.”

“Easy there, Holmes.” Your eyes widened at him. “John, what’s gotten into—”

“Were you ever married?” John deadpanned.

“What?” you and Dean asked.

“You were, were married?” Sam raised a brow.

“No!” You threw out your hands and sat upright. “I’ve never been married.”

Sherlock dragged his hand down his face and started pacing the room. Furrowing his brow, Dean glared at him before snapping his gaze to John.

“Did they—”

“Oh, shit.” John raked his palm over his hair.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock drew in a breath. Following the nagging feeling in his stomach, he marched over to you. Placing a palm on either side of your face, he stared at you for a moment.

“What are you…” you started.

But when he leaned in to kiss you, you scrambled from your seat and yanked your face away from him.

“What the fuck, Holmes?! Friends. I just said we’re friends. Not...how long have you been holding that in?”

Sherlock placed his palm over his mouth and stifled a groan. He circled around and pointed a finger at Dean.

“Who is her angel?!” he barked.

“Angel?” Dean wrinkled his nose. “She doesn’t..what? I think she’s fine the way she is.”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead and sucked in a breath.

“John...what is the one thing you would have wished for her?”

“That, er, that she never would have met...him.”

“Rowena never had a solution,” Sherlock spat. “She just wanted to rifle through her memories. And when she couldn’t find Moriarty, she just…”

He threw his hand in the air and strutted out of the room.

You and the Winchesters stared at John.

“John…” You narrowed your eyes. “What am I missing?”

“I don’t...I don’t know if I should tell you.”

He followed after Sherlock. Sitting across from the brothers, you crossed your arms and glanced to the side. Dean leaned forward and examined your expression.

“You have an angel friend?”

“No,” you scoffed. “I hate them. They’re the ones who threw me into the CIA.”


	12. Burdened by the Truth

In the throne room of Hell, Jim clasped his hands behind his back and tapped his foot. Crowley paced back and forth and shook his head.

“It took me months to plan this out. Down to the finest detail,” the demon grumbled.

He took a few steps toward Jim.

“And then you...you had to throw it all away for ONE BLOODY NIGHT OF UNBRIDLED PASSION!”

“Jealous?” Jim hummed.

“You could have had her for all eternity. Everything was unfolding perfectly…”

“Eternity?”

“Yes, James. I practically handed you an eternal mate on a silver platter. If only you didn’t have the patience of a goldfish.” Crowley dragged his hand down his face and groaned. “When they get her memories back, and they will, they always do, it will be that much harder for this to work.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me, Your Majesty.”

“Sit down, James.” Crowley gestured to the floor. “Are you ready for the story?”

In the bunker kitchen, you opened the oven and peered inside.

“A few more minutes,” you murmured, closing the door.

You spun around and leaned your backside against the counter. Crossing your arms, you raised your eyebrows at John.

“You’re telling me that he and I are…”

“Romantically involved?” 

“John, you sound like you’re convincing yourself more than me.”

“It’s the truth!”

“Okay, say I entertain this idea, how long have we been dating?”

“You’re not dating.”

“Then we’re...what?”

“Fucking Christ.” John dragged his hand down his face. 

“Wait.” You whipped your head around and furrowed your brow. “Have we...you know...?”

“Yes.” John stared at the floor with wide eyes.

“Was it...was he any good?”

“Since when do you know how to cook?” John gestured to the oven.

“Since always.” You shrugged. “I can’t bake for shit. But my cooking is passable.”

“What the hell is happening?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking! I’m suddenly supposed to believe that we’re living in the bunker with the Winchesters. All while Sherlock Holmes and I are unromantically involved and have apparently had sex.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “And by the look on your face, it was traumatizing. So it was either astonishingly fantastic or unspeakably terrible.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘ability to please me in bed, thirteen out of ten.’”

“Oh, shit. Was I talking about him?”

You and John stared at the wall in silence. Your feelings for the detective were tolerant, at best. It didn’t add up. But, then again, nothing seemed to make sense today.

“Can you take that out in a minute or two?” You nodded to the oven.

“Sure.”

As you walked to Sherlock’s room, Dean grabbed a hold of your elbow in the hallway. He looked into your eyes and swallowed.

“Go easy on him,” he said.

“What?”

“The way you’re looking at him…” He sucked in a breath. “It’s killing him.”

“Dean, he's not an assignment. I'm not recalibrating who I am to make him feel better.”

“Just...go easy on him.”

“Did you and I have sex too?” you snickered.

“No, Troublemaker. I’d remember that for the both of us.”

He left to follow the scent from the kitchen. 

When you arrived at Sherlock’s door, you drew in a breath and knocked before slowly opening it. Peering inside, you saw Sherlock lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. You invited yourself in and leaned on the empty desk.

“I need your help,” you said, crossing your arms. 

“John was supposed to explain.” He continued staring upward.

“Not about us, Holmes. About the case.”

“What?” He furrowed his brow.

After a moment, Sherlock propped himself upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and narrowed his eyes. 

“You’re working a case, aren’t you?” You raised your eyebrows. “That’s why we’re here? The last thing I remember is waking up on the couch at your place. So I’ll need you to brief me. I’m clearly missing time and...other elements.”

“What do you remember about Moriarty?”

“He and Riley were interested in a few potential business deals. But nothing significant. Everything I know about him is through, well, you.”

Sherlock clasped his hands together and rested them between his knees. He bit his lip and glanced to the side, doubt growing along the sides of his mind like determined ivy.

“What do I need to know about him?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Explain.”

“He’s dead.”

“And you’re here to solve his murder?”

He gave you a solemn nod. But you shook your head in reply.

“Why do you care about who killed the consulting criminal? And why are we here?”

“His body was left in Mycroft’s foyer. Courtesy of the angels.”

“And that’s why you were asking which one I knew? Other than Castiel?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

“Don’t.” 

His gaze snapped to you. Narrowing your eyes, you drew in a breath and studied him. But as he looked away, you shifted your shoulders and cleared your throat.

“I love you deeply, don’t I?”

Silence.

“But you…” You bit your lip. “You don’t say it as much.”

“I’m not...known for my ability to express myself emotionally.” 

“It’s a shame.”

His eyes flickered to yours for the briefest of moments. But they darted to the floor when the corner of your lip upturned in the slightest smile. 

“Your voice is quite beautiful.”

You threw yourself upright and walked out of the room. 

In the hallway, you dashed to the kitchen as smoke filled the air. Your mouth hung open at the sight of John, Sam, and Dean waving pot holders, papers, and a gun (respectively) through the air.

“John! I was gone for a moment. What did you do?”

“I lost track of time!”

“Doing what? Daydreaming about your girlfriend?”

“You remember her?”

You yanked the potholders from his hand and threw your charred roast in the sink. Dousing it in water, you turned around and raised your eyebrows. 

“Of course, you kept sneaking off to see her. As if the great detective couldn’t figure it out.”

“Six months,” Sherlock said from behind you.

You spun around and he looked downward.

“I knew for six months.” He cleared his throat. “I was supposed to tell you.”

“Why?” you asked.

“I, I don’t know.”

Dean threw his hand in the air. “I still would have eaten that.”

He scowled at the ruined dinner. 

“Dude, the corpses in Hell aren’t even burnt that bad.” Sam wrinkled his nose.

“I’ll pick us up something to eat.” You shrugged. 

“Don’t!” the three of them pleaded. 

Narrowing your eyes, you drew in a breath and sighed. 

“I’m not allowed to leave here, am I?”

“Just until we…” Sam’s jaw ticked. “We don’t have the best track record with missing memories.”

“And we still don’t know who’s looking for you.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Who would be looking for me?” You furrowed your brow at John.

“Exactly. We don’t know.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Sammy, what’d ya say we take Doctor Watson for a burger run?”

“As long as he takes a look at your cholesterol levels,” Sam grumbled.

Dean gave a rousing thumbs up to Sam and John. He bounded toward the stairs. When you turned to give Sherlock a curious look, John changed the oven settings from broil back to bake.

And lowered the temperature.

You looked back to the peculiar sight of the Winchesters and Captain John Watson scurrying out of the bunker like schoolboys. 

An interesting vision, indeed.

In reply, you swiped two beers from the fridge. Taking a seat on the couch, you gestured for Sherlock to join you. You popped off the lids and offered him a bottle.

“I’ve never seen you drink, but if you want one?”

With tentative fingers, he wrapped his hand around the bottle and sat down. He picked at the label with his fingernail and shook his head. 

You took a swig and raised your eyebrows. 

“Are we secret drinking buddies? Because that was more Dean’s deal.”

“No.” He set the bottle aside.

“I have to be careful,” you laughed. “Get too much in me and I reach this—”

“Truth serum drunk.”

“Yes.” You paused. “How did you…?”

“Deductive reasoning.” His jaw ticked.

“You’re lying. That’s your tell.”

“What?”

“Your jawline. Does this thing when there’s something else going on.”

“You would never tell me that,” he murmured. 

“What? Why? I figure it would help you with your work. When you’re terrorizing someone for information.”

“Normally, you would prefer to exploit that against me.”

“That sounds healthy.”

And, for the first time in days, Sherlock smiled. A genuine, slight upturn of the corner of his lip.

“What aren’t you telling me, Holmes?” You rested your elbow in the back of the couch and leaned forward. “Did we really do something so stupid like get married? Is that why John asked?”

But he could only bite his lip and glance down, unwilling to lie to you or burden you with the truth. 

“I can’t imagine that,” you laughed. “Your ideal wedding would include confessions to murder over admissions of love. Married to the work after all.”

You kicked up your feet on the coffee table and leaned back into the plush comforts of the leather. 

“The type of woman who would capture your attention. What a thought.”

You took a gulp of beer and set the bottle down. 

“Are you happy?” Sherlock asked, slowly directing his gaze to you. 

“Happy is a peculiar status to maintain. But, with everything I can recall, I’d say yes. Clint Riley is finally in prison. And I’ve got John and...you. I need to get my own place though. Your couch is destroying my back.”

You raised a brow. “Do you think Mrs. H would let me rent the place below you?”

“Um, yes.”

“I’ll have to get a job...maybe take on some work for your brother or something.”

“That’s a concept.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

“We don’t get along do we?” You shrugged. “Maybe Greg Lestrade has something I could do. Wouldn’t mind following him around for a day.”

“No, you would not.”

“Is he my secret husband?” You smirked. “Because that’s a secret I could handle.”

“His divorce was never finalized.”

“Then who is it, Holmes? Or I can just figure it out for my—”

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock swallowed and looked down; unsure if he was doing the right thing. John wasn’t here to tell him what to do. 

Buying time. He was merely buying time. 

“Me,” he breathed. “It’s me.”

“You’re lying. Where’s your ring?”

“Stopped wearing mine and you stopped wearing yours in retaliation.”

“Okay, now that, I could believe.”

“It was for your visa, at first.”

“I have a feeling your brother had a way around that.”

“Absolutely. But you refused his help.”

You scoffed and shook your head. “This is a joke. You can’t be telling me I’m going around as Eve Holmes.”

“Of course, not. You chose Winchester. Didn’t want to be too closely associated with me.”

“Protect me from your hordes of enemies or fans?”

“Both. Even though we know you’re really, really…” He closed his eyes and whispered your name, your real name. 

“What?” You bolted upright. “No one, no one knows that identity.”

“Then I guess I’m no one.”

You held your breath as you stared at him, examining his expression with a degree of scrutiny that was weighed down by your many years of deception. 

“You...you might actually be telling me the truth.” You narrowed your eyes.

“It’s one of the promises I made to you. That I would never lie to you.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line? Former spy.”

“Right. Yes, it was mutual.”

“What’s your angle, Holmes? What do you get out of telling me this?”

“There’s no angle to work. You have a right to know.”

“What else, what else did I promise you?”

“You said…” Avoiding your gaze, he smiled; ever so gently. “That you would love me even if I lost my mind. That you willingly give your heart to me every day.”

“That’s one hell of a promise.”

Allowing his mind to wander for a moment, Sherlock scoffed and swiped his beer from the coffee table. He took a swig and smirked at you.

“Yes, but you said it was only contingent upon my uncanny ability to satisfy you in bed.”

“Oh my God! Do I really talk about it that much?”

“John’s traumatized. And not from the war.”

You threw your hand over your face and laughed. 

Full body laughed. You curled over as the sound echoed off the walls of the bunker. Sherlock never heard such resonance from you. 

“What’s so funny, chuckles?” Dean asked as he walked down the stairs.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” You looked at him with wide eyes.

“Ghosts don’t scare me.” 

Dean scoffed as he unloaded takeaway containers on the table. You tilted your head to the side when Sam refused to look at you.

“Guys, I’m fine.” You stomped your foot. “We’ve all worked together enough. You shouldn’t, you don’t have to feel badly for me just because Castiel messed with my head. I’m fine. I feel fine!”

“Right.” Sam cleared his throat, heart burdened by the truth. 

When they left the bunker, the Winchesters demanded answers. And, relieved to share his overwhelming guilt with someone, John told them. 

Everything. 

He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing. You weren’t there to tell him what to do.

But when Dean pulled over—determined not to crash Baby—the blood drained from his knuckles as his hand tightened around the steering wheel. Sam clenched his jaw as a looming knot in his stomach grew.

“This guy is lucky he’s already dead,” Dean growled.

“I’m going to find him in Hell myself.” Sam threw open the passenger door and stepped out for some fresh air.

“We can’t, we can’t say anything,” John pleaded. “I don’t think she’ll even believe it. But even if she does…”

“We have to get Cas to fix her.” Dean shook his head.

“No!” John leaned forward. “Castiel is exactly the reason we’re in this mess and I don’t know his agenda. There’s only one of their kind that she’ll trust. We have to find them. Whoever they are.”

“She never mentioned an angel,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Then again, she never told us she was even a hunter.” 

“They went together to steal things from a collector of supernatural items named Luther Shrike. That’s where we found Azrael’s Notebook.”

“Never heard of Shrike,” Dean said.

“Or the notebook.”

“Why would Castiel want her and Moriarty to take the Mark of Cain from you?” John asked.

“I, I still haven’t figured that one out.”

“We have to find her angel,” John said. “They’re the only one who might have some bloody answers.”

“I’ll investigate Shrike when we get back.” Dean shook his head.

Hands in his pockets, Sam grimaced as the breeze brushed through his hair.

“I’ll pull out the textbooks,” he groaned before re-entering the car.

As Dean pulled onto the road, John buried his face in his hands. 

“She was my, my sister. Now we’re just co-workers and flatmates. I just…”

Dean cleared his throat and readjusted in his seat. “We can lose it now. But the moment we get back, everything is back to normal. Her normal. We can’t, none of us can…”

“Tell her the truth,” Sam whispered.

They would carry it all for you.

You were finally happy.


	13. Unspoken Fantasy

The next morning, Dean woke up with his keyboard imprinted across the side of his face. With a groan, he rubbed his eyes. But he whipped his head around at the sound (and smell) of crackling bacon.

You set a heaping plate next to him and smiled.

“Late night?”

“Um, yeah.” 

He picked up the fork that mysteriously appeared on the other side of his laptop. 

“Rise n’ shine, Sammy!” 

Sam jolted awake as Dean smacked in on the back of the head. Wiping his mouth, Sam furrowed his brow at the collection of papers and open textbooks in front of him.

“Dude,” Dean complained. “Those are originals. Could you not drool all over them?”

“I’m the only one who ever touches them anyway.” Sam rolled his eyes.

You set a mug of coffee in front of him.

“Thanks.” He cocked an eyebrow at Dean.

But, already ravenous, Dean shrugged and tore into his eggs. He toyed with the generous strings of cheddar that clung to the scramble and snickered.

“We never got the royal treatment before.”

“Yeah.” You sat next to Sam with a cup of coffee. “And I never told you I was a hunter. I have no idea why though. I wasn’t trying to hide anything...”

“‘ecrets ‘ept yur ‘irlish fig’r,” Dean murmured through a full bite.

“What?” you asked.

“Secrets kept your girlish figure,” Sam translated.

Your coffee went up your nose as you snorted a laugh. Shaking your head, you popped to your feet to finish Sam’s egg white omelet. When you passed him the plate, you smiled at him. But Sam could only stare at you with wide eyes.

“Something on my face?” You frowned.

“No, um. Just, uh, going keto.”

“Oh, I could make you some bacon...wait, you had a burger and fries last night.”

“I didn’t say I was good at it.”

“I missed you guys,” you laughed.

With a cup of tea in hand, you strode into the hallway.

Dean dragged his hands over his face. “Nice save.”

“I’m still getting used to it.”

“Her face, right?”

“She’s just so…”

“Calm.”

Outside of John’s room, you gently knocked on the door and drew in a breath. When you cracked the door open upon his invitation, you smiled at him as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“You adjusted to the time difference well.” You handed him the tea.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“We’ve been here for a while haven’t we?”

“A bit.” He shrugged. 

“Well, I’ll let you get ready.”

You started your way to the hallway. But John cleared his throat to gather your attention.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

With your hand on the doorframe, you paused and looked down. 

“We’re closer than I remember, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, in a way.”

You turned around and shook your head. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I feel like I’m failing everyone’s expectations of me. And I don’t even know what they are.”

“We just...we’ll get this figured out.”

“What do I say to him?”

“Just be...Just be his friend. How does that feel?”

You furrowed your brow. “I think, I think I can do that.”

As the Winchesters continued their relentless research, you found yourself in the training facility. Making friends with the punching bag, you gritted your teeth as your shoulders tensed.

But as your hand cramped, you slammed your heel to the bag and took a step back. With heavy breath, you wiped the sweat from your brow and looked down.

“You can come in,” you called out.

But when you turned around, you were all alone.

By the afternoon, you strutted next to Dean and slammed his laptop closed.

“Whoa, whoa!” He threw his hands up. 

Blinking firmly, Sam shook out his face. His gaze gradually drifted until it found it yours.

“You have been at it for hours.” You crossed your arms. “Take a break, go for a drive, and fuel up.”

“No, no. I think our best bet is to go undercover to get a few answers out of this collector himself.” 

Dean tried to open his laptop. But you placed your hand over his and pressed down.

“Take a break, Dean. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean looked at Sam. But his brother only shook his head.

“I’ve been reading the same sentence for the past twenty-five minutes.”

“Alright, maybe it is time for a break.” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Can you do me a favor?” you asked.

“Anything.”

A plate of chips in hand, you raised your fist to knock on Sherlock’s door. But you bit your lip and glanced down. Shaking your head, you turned around; uncertainty gnawing at your stomach. 

But as you stared at the fried potatoes in hand, you clenched your jaw and spun back around. You placed three firm knocks to the wood, only to furrow your brow at Sherlock’s reply.

“John, I’m fine.”

“Not John.”

After a moment, the door swung open and you held up the plate.

“You still like these? I didn’t make that up, did I?”

Sherlock stared at the plate. As you ground the ball of your foot into the floor, you pointed behind you and shook your head.

“I know you haven’t eaten today. But I can, I can just go.”

“Thank you.”

He wrapped his hand around the side of the plate. Examining your offering, he narrowed his eyes before looking at you.

“You have questions,” he said. 

“Yes, but only if—”

He gestured for you to enter. 

Sherlock set the plate at the center of the mattress. He hopped onto the bed and crossed his legs. 

Outstretching his hand, Sherlock offered you the spot across from the plate. But seeing your eyes transfixed on the desk, he cleared his throat and retracted his hand, opting to scratch the back of his head. 

“Or wherever you’re comfortable.”

“Oh, um. This is fine.”

You crawled on the bed across from him. Settling into the mattress, you plucked a chip from the plate and extended it to him. 

“Will you actually eat with me? From what I remember, your appetite is nowhere near Dean Winchester’s.”

He accepted the chip from your hand. You only exhaled when he took a bite. This was new. But maybe new could be good.

After a swallow, his gaze flickered to you. 

“What do you want to know?”

“John never mentions me on his blog.”

“Per your request.”

“Yes, I fully believe that.”

You picked the side of the plate. 

“You stopped an anthrax attack. I don’t, I don’t remember that. But the date on his post says I was there. At least from when I remember getting to London.”

“You were there.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock glanced to the side. He drew in a breath. But you shook your head and swallowed. 

“If it’s too difficult for you—”

“The attack was arranged by Clint Riley.”

“What? That wasn’t part of his MO.”

“That’s when we learned he had a partner.”

“A partner?”

“Yes, the attack was a plea to impress...him.”

“Riley was not the type to work with a partner. But even if he were, he would be the dominant in the relationship. Why would he feel the need to impress a submissive partner?”

“There were many assumptions we...I made about this case that were wrong.”

You tilted your head to the side until his eyes met yours. No, Sherlock Holmes would never say such a thing. Not the version of the man you remembered. But you blinked a few times and retracted your gaze; dismissing the nagging question of how much about your life you misremembered. 

“John said you managed to find the antitoxin in time to save a few victims. You still solved the case.”

“You were a significant help.”

“What?”

“You profiled his behavior well enough to anticipate where he hid it.”

“You didn’t deduce it yourself?”

“No, I was infected.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped you. If anything, it would provide additional motivation to find your salvation.”

“I, I did. But again, with your aid.”

With disbelief in your eyes, you drew in a breath. Sherlock bit his lip and glanced down. He clutched a chip between his fingers and, bones riddled with fear, presented it to you.

“Your appetite matches that of Dean Winchester’s.” He gulped. “If I remember correctly.”

Studying the look in his eyes, the corner of your lip upturned in the slighted smirk. You accepted and took a bite. After a swallow, you tilted your head to the side. 

“You’re different than I remember.”

“Go on,” he laughed lowly. “There’s more.”

“It’s just...I think, I think that’s a good thing.”

Sherlock offered you the gentlest of smiles, heart overflowing with relief. After another bite, you smiled back.

“Did we really get married to keep me from getting deported?”

“John wasn’t going to. There’s still hope for him.”

“And we just fell hopelessly in love with each other because we were already bound to each other?”

“Essentially...yes. You were quite enamored with me.”

“I have a feeling there’s more to that story. But I’ll save that for another time.” You shook your head. “What’s our everyday like?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room. “You spend...ample time at home.”

“Am I suddenly an agoraphobe? I don’t believe that for a second.”

“No...you...simply prefer the confines of our flat.”

“So...I don’t sleep on the couch?”

“Um…” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No.”

“The sex is that good?” You cocked an eyebrow. 

“Your words. Not mine.”

He redirected his attention to a chip peeking out of the pile. With a laugh, you grabbed your own and shook your head. 

After a few silent bites, you looked at him and sucked in an inhale. 

“I think I know the answer to this. But do we want kids?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to yours. He drew in a breath. And, before he could calculate the implications of the words coming from his mouth, he spoke freely.

“Yes.”

“Oh! Now you’re really lying to me. What was that promise again, Holmes? Even if I can’t remember it.”

“Once we marry off the one upstairs.” He smirked. “No, we would be horrifying parents. You would use your Sig as a nanny.”

“That...does sound like me. I have a feeling John is more mother hen than either of us though.”

“That’s absolutely true.”

“You would make your own child call you ‘Sherlock’ instead of ‘Dad’.”

“When all the children at the crime scene are calling for Daddy, there will be only one asking for Sherlock.”

“All the children at the crime scene?” you laughed. “No, he’d be screaming about what amateurs the entire police force is because there was clearly a partner involved.”

“Then I have done my job right. He can learn from my mistakes.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”

“No, never.”

You furrowed your brow. “But we’ve thought about it?”

“I...I can only speak for myself.”

Clearing his throat, Sherlock rubbed his palms over his knees. He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“No, you’ve been incredibly helpful. Thank you.”

You slid off the bed and smiled at him. 

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you more, Sherlock Holmes.”

With an additional spring in your step, you strutted to the library and reunited with the Winchesters. You wrapped your arms around each of them from behind and adorned their cheeks with a single kiss.

“Someone’s chipper.” Dean smirked. 

You took a seat and slid your chair in. “I told you, I’m fine. Now, will you let me help with this research or not? I presume you’re looking for this angel?”

“No, no, no. You’re not touching this.” Dean shook his head. 

“Dean, she might remember something. This could give us a lead,” Sam said.

“And how did it go last time we went scratching around missing memories?”

“I’m fine.” Sam put his hands on his chest. “And it’s not like she has drywall in her brain like I did. She’s just missing...certain information.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine is relative. And we don’t know the repercussions of what...Cas did to her.”

“I’m here and I’m ready to help,” you said. “What do you have?”

But as Dean opened his mouth, Sam nodded to you.

“What do you remember about a guy named Luther Shrike?”

You furrowed your brow. “I...I worked a job to steal from him.”

“Good, this is good.” Sam’s eyes flickered to Dean and back to you. “What did you steal?”

“I went to steal the Wings of Icarus. But I only made it out with a feather.”

“Dean. Solid. Lead.” Sam pointed at you.

“Alright, alright.” 

Dean opened his search engine and started typing away. Sam cleared his work station of all texts on angelkind. He rushed to examine the rest of the volumes for information on Greek lore.

You cleared your throat. “Anything else I can do?”

“No, sweetheart. You’ve helped plenty. Just take it easy. For me.”

“What am I supposed to do with myself?”

“You’ll think of somethin’. Go flirt with that hot husband of yours.”

Sam peered out from behind a bookshelf and mouthed ‘what are you doing?’ But Dean only grinned at you as you rolled your eyes and strode out the door.

When you fell asleep the night before—significantly faster than ever, Sherlock timed you from outside your door—the four men convened in the War Room.

Dean crossed his arms and shook his head. 

“I gave up on trying to contact Cas. He’s not coming back to fix this. This is on us.”

“There are no signs of Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “Here, London, or anywhere on Earth for that matter.”

“What the hell are we going to do?” Sam put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. 

John glared at them all. 

“We’re going to figure this out. I don’t know how you two run your operation, but we don’t leave cases unsolved. This is a case. We have a client—”

“We don’t take clients,” Dean grumbled. 

“Victim.” John raised his eyebrows. “And we are going to solve this. With or without angelic help. We don’t need to be on the side of the angels to still be bloody effective.”

“Shrike is our best lead.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck.

“We’ll track angelic sightings in the past few decades. Perhaps fresh eyes will help us narrow it down since you two have a pre-existing relationship with most of them,” John said.

He turned to Sherlock and jabbed a finger to his chest.

“And you! What the hell were you thinking lying to her AGAIN?!”

“I wouldn’t have had to if your interrogation tactics weren’t as obvious as Dean’s unrequited feelings! Have you learned nothing from her?”

“Hey!” Dean whined.

“It took all that time to build trust with her.” John glared at Sherlock. “When we get her memories back, she’s going to be furious if she remembers this. Claiming to be married? This isn’t time to play house!”

“I’m not fulfilling an unspoken fantasy. It was this or she did her own investigative work and learned the truth.”

“You could have come up with a better lie than this one!”

“He made the right call,” Dean growled.

“You weren’t there,” John seethed. “Falling in love with him almost destroyed her. And not because he has the emotional IQ of a Hoover. But because she learned that the very man who was supposed to love her, protect her, and care for her would do nothing but hurt her.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Don’t you think I know that? I don’t care what she calls me. But the reason she can only say I am her _friend_ is because any other descriptor suitable for the nature of our relationship is associated, in her mind, with danger.”

Sam shifted his weight. “John, it was an impossible situation. We’re all on the same side here.”

“Yes, but sometimes he blurs the lines.”

“He made the right call,” Dean repeated. “None of this makes it back to her.”

“Of course,” John said.

Dean sucked in a breath and glanced at Sherlock. “Just, just let her be happy with you. ‘Cuz God knows she’s going to be pissed when she comes back to her senses."


	14. First Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration for this chapter is [Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin.](https://youtu.be/d1yTyAh8IA8)

“Crowley,” Castiel growled at the demon in the empty warehouse.

“What’s got your feathers ruffled? I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“Your plan didn’t work.”

“I _know._ Even with your assist.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Oh no, it was purely to maintain the monogamous status of your relationship. But even I admit, I might have bet on the wrong racehorse.”

Castiel gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. 

“Is there any chance of salvaging her trust in him?”

“Your family must be so disappointed in you.”

“I’m used to it.”

Crowley paced back and forth and snickered. “Well, with your assistance, perhaps this situation is salvageable after all.”

“I don’t like this either.” Castiel shook his head. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

“You would rather a psychopathic murderer carry the Mark of Cain than Dean Winchester? Shocking.”

“Just...tell me what you need.”

“There’s a good soldier. I’ll be in touch.”

The moment Crowley disappeared, Castiel tugged at the strands of his hair and groaned. He drew in a breath and started pacing. But just as the seraph was ready to depart, a circle of flames erupted from the concrete.

“Crowley, I just said—”

“Not a demon.” His captor stepped forward. “But in a moment, you’ll wish I was one.”

“Who are you?” 

“Who I am isn’t important. But what I want _is_. You are going to unfuck this holy mess you created and fix the woman’s memories. My client gets what he wants. I get what I want. And you might make it out with the ability to speak.”

The man withdrew an angel blade. 

“Shall we begin?”

In the bunker kitchen, you spun around with a wooden spoon in hand. Palm underneath to catch any downfall, you slowly extended it to Sherlock. He took a tentative nibble and shook his head. 

“Rosemary. The composition—”

“Too much or too little?”

“Too little.”

“Thank you, detective.”

You returned your attention to the pan and added a few fresh sprigs.

Sherlock studied your movements: the way your hands danced over the hob. How you bit your lip and looked upward when you were stuck on what to do next. The darting of your eyes before they met his.

As you stirred the meat, you sucked in a breath. He braced himself for the question that would escape your lips upon your exhale.

“My scars…”

Not a question. Maybe worse.

He took a deep breath.

“Did I have surgery?” you asked. “Anything important I should know about?”

“They did work on a gunshot wound. You were injured in the line of duty.”

“When did that happen?”

“When we were searching for his partner. John kept you alive long enough to receive proper medical attention.”

You furrowed your brow and transferred the meat to a baking dish. When you were finished, you turned around and raised your shirt.

“That might explain this one.” You tapped the contorted circle on your lower abdomen. “But what about this?”

Sherlock’s eyes followed the line down the center of your stomach. He swallowed and looked away just as Dean entered the kitchen. 

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked with wide eyes. 

You lowered your shirt and looked at Sherlock. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“John is more familiar with your medical history.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “You should ask him.”

“I have a feeling that’s not necessarily true. But if you’re tired of my questions—”

“No,” Sherlock blurted the word. “It’s just, he will provide you with more satisfactory answers.”

“Alright. I’ll ask him later. But is there anything important that I need to know medically? Allergies or anything?”

“No, nothing.”

Dean glared at Sherlock before nodding to you. 

“Whatchu makin’ up there?”

“Shepherd's pie.” You smiled, piling potatoes over the meat mixture. “I thought it would satisfy palates all around.”

“Smells great. But you know you don’t have to cook for us, right?”

“Of course,” you laughed. “I just need something to do. And it’s rather relaxing. Helps that I have a wonderful assistant too.”

Your eyes flickered to Sherlock for just a moment. 

“Alright.” Dean cleared his throat. “If you need anything, well, ask him.”

He left you alone with your thoughts, half-completed pie, and one somber detective. When the dish was in the oven, you leaned against the counter next to Sherlock. 

“I’ve interrogated you all day,” you said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, there is nothing I require of you.”

“That’s not what I asked, Holmes.” You nudged him with your elbow. “Can I do something for you? As a kindness? And in gratitude for your help?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted by a world that continually asked for more from each of you by the day. But he released an exhale and captured your gaze.

“Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“Being the person you remember me as.”

You bit your lip and looked into his eyes, enjoying the warmth behind them that you’d truly never seen before. 

“I...I can work on that.”

Forty minutes later, dinner was a rousing success. The bunker filled with laughter, stories of memories you did not have, and many a jest at the expense of Dean Winchester. 

Three bites into your meal, you raised your beer and laughed. 

“Yes, when I was in the Army…” 

But your eyes widened when you looked at John’s face. 

“I was never in the Army was I?”

“Er...it’s real to you. That’s what counts.”

You took a gulp and set down the bottle. Who were you supposed to be if your identity was taped together with mistruths?

By the time you cleared plates from the table, Sam leaned forward and grinned at John. 

“Do you really know David Attenborough?”

“He’s a fan of the blog.” John smirked and took a sip of beer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. But, unsettled by your empty seat, he pushed out his chair and followed you into the kitchen. 

As you rinsed the already well-cleaned dishes, you outstretched your hand to set a wet plate upon the towel. But you sucked in a breath when a helping hand wrapped around the other side. 

“May I?” Sherlock asked. 

“Only if you want to.” You redirected your attention to the dirty plates and snickered. 

But, to your great surprise, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes dutifully dried the dishes as you washed them. As you passed him each plate, you examined the tenderness of his touch, eyes flitting away before they had the chance to linger.

When the job was complete, you dried your hands on an unused towel. Heart hammering inside of your chest, you placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. 

“Thank you.”

He blinked a few times at the point of contact. But when you retracted your touch, he pursed his lips and nodded. 

“Of course.”

“Are we outstanding domestic civilians at home?”

“We’re an...outstanding something.”

“Something it is,” you laughed. 

You turned to the countertop and handed him a cherry pie. He furrowed his brow.

“I didn’t make it!” You raised your hands. “So you won’t contract botulism. Take it to the boys for me?”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip tugged upward in a smile. He turned to follow through on your orders. But you called out to him, sound of your voice accompanied by the clamoring of plates. 

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Yes?” He spun around instantly.

“Can you take these too?” You pointed to a pile of small plates with forks on top. 

“Undeniably.”

After passing him the stack, Sherlock presented the dessert to the dinner table. 

In the kitchen, you stifled a laugh when you heard John ask, “She didn’t make this did she?”

But as Sherlock doled out the plates, his face contorted when he realized there were only four. A fact that (normally) would not go unnoticed by him, he dashed into the kitchen. But he was greeted by emptiness. 

Outside your room, he tentatively cracked the door open. Sitting on your bed, you had your hands wrapped around your legs with your forehead resting on your knees. 

“I’m fine, John.”

“Not John.”

You raised your head to see Sherlock peeking through the doorway.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

“I was going to ask the same question.”

With a hard swallow, you shook your head and looked down.

“No, you’ve helped me plenty today. I’m sure it must be agonizing for you to pretend to be so patient with me.”

“It’s not...it’s not an act.”

“Say I believe you…”

“Then you might...tell me what’s troubling you?”

You sucked in an inhale and Sherlock stepped into your room. He pressed his back to the door, latching it shut with a minuscule amount of pressure. 

“I know it’s killing you guys.” You shook your head. “I can see it in your eyes.” 

Sherlock pressed his palms to the door, choosing to fixate on a curious notch of wood in the floorboards. You followed his line of sight and traced the outline with your eyes. It was truly a fascinating specimen. 

You picked at your jeans and drew in a breath.

“But I can’t help but feel like something is off. And I don’t know what’s real or what’s my paranoia…”

“You’re struggling to trust yourself?” He finally looked at you.

“To trust anything.”

With a calculated breath, Sherlock took a step forward. He outstretched his hand to you. Narrowing your eyes at the offering, you scoffed.

“What is this about?”

“Humor me.”

Crawling to the edge of the bed, you placed fingertips to his palm. He wrapped his hand around yours and helped you upright.

When your feet hit the floorboards, Sherlock placed his other hand along your waist. Your breath hitched upon contact. But you laughed, stumbling over your feet as he led you throughout your temporary room. 

“I’m terrible at this!”

“Quite.” He smirked.

But, a man whose intellect could only be outmatched by his stubbornness, Sherlock committed to the task at hand and danced with you for the second time in his life. 

Even though it was your first.

You tripped on his foot. But the detective caught you with open arms as you flew to his chest. Breath caught in your throat, you threw yourself backward and held up your hands.

“Sweet gesture but I can’t, I can’t do this.”

“Because you’re fighting me.”

“Why do I get a feeling that isn’t uncommon?”

“You need to follow my lead.”

“I’m not very good at that, am I?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

He raised his eyebrows and extended his hand again. 

Biting your lip, your eyes flickered from the floor to his. But your hesitation melted into determination as you bolted upright. You placed one hand over his and planted his other on your waist.

“I’m going to be so damn good at this.”

Sherlock snickered as he attempted your second dance. Your fingers tightened around his shoulder. But, with a exhale of surrender, your mind ceased the taxing work of trying to anticipate his movements.

And you followed his lead.

He smiled, ever so slightly, as your muscles relaxed. In a single movement, Sherlock outstretched his arm and spun you outward. The fingers of your other hand floated through the air. 

One hand still connected with yours, he nodded at you.

“You’re getting better.”

“For the sake of your toes.”

He curled his fingers inward and tugged you back to him. But this time with your back to his chest. He leaned in to murmur the words you couldn’t remember telling him months ago.

“I’ve got you.”

He retracted himself from you and turned you around. Heart thumping with uncertainty, you stared at him with wide eyes.

“I have to let go of control,” you concluded.

“Yes.”

“And this was an exercise in trust or an excuse to put your hands on me?”

“Both.” He smirked. “You had to experience it for yourself.”

“We’ve done this before?”

“In a way.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you? Because you’re my...husband?”

“No, not by title.” He drew in a deep breath. “Because I am in love with you.”

“I thought you weren’t good at expressing yourself?”

“Admittedly, it’s never been this easy.” 

He took a hesitant step forward. But when you didn’t retreat, Sherlock extended his hand; tracing the side of your face with the backs of his fingers.

“I am irretrievably in love with you,” he breathed. “I have been terribly alone all my life. But as long as you’ll have me, I’m not going anywhere.”

Yes, he learned.

He learned from you.

But Sherlock retracted his hand as your eyes blew wide open. Jaw hanging, you shook your head and took a step back.

“Oh my God,” your voice cracked. “Am I sick? Months to live kind of thing?”

“What? No.”

“Weeks?!”

“No, no. Your health is...intact.”

“You have no issue expressing your feelings to me. You look...you look relieved even.”

“Well, I practiced on John. He didn’t—”

“Holmes, what is wrong with me?”

“Nothing, there is nothing wrong with you.”

“What is so terribly wrong with me that I won’t let you say you love me?”

Sherlock could already hear John in his head. 

_Oh shit._

“That’s why you’re all walking on eggshells around me.” You swallowed. “Why you’re all so adamant about me taking it easy and enjoying myself. There’s something wrong with me and I don’t remember what it is.”

“It’s not, no, you just—”

“I don’t love you back? Confession to soothe your conscience?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? What do I not remember?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Because I’m just supposed to trust you?”

“Because there is a proper way to do this.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Mycroft. What are you all hiding from me? Whispering around when I’m not in the room?”

Crossing your arms, you took a step toward him and pierced his eyes with your gaze.

“What are you all so desperately trying to protect me from?”

“You have to remember it for yourself,” he pleaded. “Or it won’t, it’ll be, it will be too much.”

As every instinct told you to storm down the hallway, your fingers tightened around your forearm; pressing crescent-shaped intents into your skin. But instead of abandoning your alleged husband, you raised your gaze to meet his.

“You’re the only one who’s told me anything real. Everyone else is just...putting on a performance. I am begging you, tell me.”

But he tangled his fingers in his hair and gritted his teeth. You placed your palm to the side of his face and looked into his eyes.

“All I want right now is to fall in love with you again. But something is telling me that’s a terrible idea. And I need, I deserve to know why.”

Sherlock marched to the door and peered outside. 

“Hey!” you complained. “You can’t just—”

But he spun around and closed it, nodding to the bed. 

“Sit down,” he whispered. “And I will, I will tell you the story of how we met.”

And, for the next few hours, you got to know yourself through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. 

Everything about the beginning of his story matched with yours. Except, according to your best recollection, you didn’t dash down the hallway from Marcus’ flat. You told them your mission with your gun to John’s head and, bless their souls, they took you on as a client.

“I tased you?” You stared at him in disbelief.

“I deserved it. And then I stole from you.”

Sherlock told you about your meeting with John, at least as much as he knew. How John agreed to return your stolen notebook. But Sherlock leveraged the handoff as a way to take over your operation.

He relayed your lack of trust in him in exquisite detail. But Sherlock couldn’t look at you when he confessed to how he bruised you for your cover, even if it was per your demand. And then how he willingly abandoned you in the hands of London’s finest human traffickers.

“But I told you to do all of this?” you confirmed.

“Yes. You were quite adamant.”

“And then?”

Sherlock told you about the clues you left for John. How they barely managed to save your life as John cut you open in the middle of the floor at 221B Baker Street. You held up your finger when he got to the end of your recovery period.

“You tried to DRUG me as an excuse to makeout with me?”

“No, it wasn’t for physical contact. It was, it was for information. Strictly interrogation.” He rolled his eyes. “And it didn’t even work. You saw through me from the beginning. Completely played me.”

“Keep going.” You dragged your hand down your face.

Twenty minutes later, you threw your hands in the air.

“Do we only get frisky when I’m on drugs or drunk?”

“This time, you begged me to stop because you couldn’t. And I did. This was not my fault!”

“I can’t believe I still had sex with you.”

“I...I can’t either.”

But Sherlock pressed onward and told you how Ashworth came for John. How you finally told him your fake cover—well, it was still real to you—and John went undercover to infiltrate the operation. 

Opting to sanitize the story for both your sorry sakes, he expedited the narrative to the anthrax attack. But he stopped at his hospitalization and shook his head.

“I...I can stop.” He swallowed.

“But this is the part where you found out about his partner. Who? How?”

Silence.

“He had a submissive partner he wanted to impress. And part of that meant humiliating you. A competition. A display of dominance. But why bother antagonizing you? Especially when he had an open window to take over Ashworth’s organization.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Why are you…” Your eyes widened. “Were we involved at this point?”

He gave you a single, solemn nod. You threw your head back and stared at the ceiling. 

“You’re not my husband,” you panted.

“No.”

“Tell me the rest.”

And he did.

He told you everything from the clues you left for him to your budding friendship with Jim to—

“Clint’s dead?”

“Moriarty orchestrated his death.”

Sherlock told you as much as he knew about your time with Jim Moriarty. From his multiple murder attempts on you, the serial killer you stopped with a single poker game, all the way to helping free you from prison. 

He gave you a quick summary of your months of house arrest. After which you found yourselves in America, reunited with the Winchesters, had your memories altered by Castiel, and now…

...You were here.

Sherlock picked at a thread on the covers and shook his head; realizing now that John’s greatest wish for you was to remove all the abusive men from your life: including him.

Your mouth hung open as you stared at the wall. After a few heavy breaths, you slowly turned your head to look at him.

“How could…” you stared.

“I am so sorry.”

“How could I do that to you?”

“What?”

“How could I lie to you so much? Bring a complete monster into your life? Love you, leave, and then threaten to kill myself in front of you? In front of John? How could, how could I put you through that?”

“We,” he swallowed, “we still don’t know everything he did to you.”

“I am...Oh my God, I am a terrible person. How can any of you even look at me?”

“Because—”

“If you say because you love me, so help me God.”

Well, things were getting back to normal.


	15. Arrogant Pricks & Fake Deaths

At the dining table, Dean set down his...Which one was this? He wasn’t keeping count...beer and snickered at John.

“Y’know, Watson. You, you’re alright.”

“I’m more, more than alright,” John hiccuped. “You’re jus’ finally wising up to it.”

Sam’s face slammed to the table.

“C’mon, Sammy.” Dean slapped him on the back. “If you can’t, can’t keep up with this hobbit, I might hav’ta disown you.”

Sam bolted upright with a gasp.

“OH MY CHUCK.” He stared at them with wide eyes. “I fig’ured, fig’ured it out.”

“Finally! I do have the prettiest eyes.” Dean slammed his beer to the table.

“His are better,” Sam and John replied.

“But no, no.” Sam shook his head. “Not, no. What you even call that color?”

“Erm…I never, never thought er‘bout it.” John cradled the side of his face in his palm.

Dean rolled his, quite frankly, illustrious eyes and groaned. 

“What’du figure out, Sherlock? You just had a breakthrough.”

“Me?” Sam pointed to himself. “No, not me. I’m not, not a Sherlock.”

“The point, Sam. Get to the bloody point,” John groaned.

“Mmm, right. So we’ve been try’na get this angel like a, a normal case. But what if, what if it wasn’t normal?”

“This is gonna take a while.” Dean dragged his hand down his face.

“We are tracking leads.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “But we need to be tracking...her.”

“What? She’s right, right here. Sherlock won’t let ‘er outta his sight.” John shook out his face.

“Don’t blame him.” Dean finished off his beer and threw open another. He nodded to the empty chairs. “D’you think they’re...y’know?”

“Don’t, don’t remind me.” John buried his face in his hands.

“No, not her,” Sam interjected. “Her taste. She’s gotta type.”

“Like arrogant douchebags?” Dean scoffed.

Pursing his lips, John continually nodded as he stared into the distance.

“Uh, yeah. Exactly,” Sam confirmed.

“We’re talkin’ about the freakin’ angels, man. They’re all arrogant douchebags.”

“But she likes the ones who, who fake their deaths.”

“You’re saying, because mine are real…” Dean put his hand on his chest. “That she’s not into me because I’ve actually been to Hell and back?”

“Among other things.” John shrugged.

“Hey!” Dean whined. “Like what?”

“Guys!” Sam threw his palms to the table. “The case!”

John threw his head back and groaned. “It’s always ‘bout the case! I’m supposed to be on holiday.”

“Merry freakin’ Christmas.” Dean scowled.

“Fake deaths!” Sam shouted.

Dean grumbled and crossed his arms. “Yeah, yeah. You’re telling me you think it’s Gabe? She hates pranks. Nearly slit my goddamn throat when I—”

“Dean, I would have tried to kill you too. But no, it’s not just about, about…” 

Sam blinked firmly, inspiring John to lean over the table and slap him across the face.

“Right, right.” Sam nodded. “So she’s into pricks.”

“Yeah, covered that,” Dean replied.

“Who fake their deaths.”

“And?”

“Here it is.” Sam held up a finger. “The frickin’ accent.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as the gears shifted into place. But after a drunken moment in time, he opened his mouth and nodded slowly.

“Son of a bitch. You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“If the shoe fits?” Sam shrugged.

“Then we’re screwed,” Dean said. “Cas ki-killed Cinderella.”

He dragged his hand down his face. “She’s gonna be fucking pissed!”

“We should still try to, to summon him.” Sam put his hands between his knees and shook his head.

“When we’re sober. You slur yur wordstoomuch.”

“My pronoun...enoun...enunciation was per-perfect.”

“I don’t even wanna know what dimension that thing came from.” Dean blinked firmly.

“I read it verbatim!” Sam shouted. “And you’re forgetting, dumbass, there are no incantations for this spell.”

He stumbled from his seat in search of a bowl. 

“Whoa, whoa,” John teetered upright. “Drunk, drunk magic doesn’t sound, er, safe.”

But Sam and Dean threw everything off the table. Dean drew sigils on the fresh surface and Sam threw ingredients in a bowl. When the materials were ready, Dean struck a matchbook and smirked at John. 

“Don’t try this at home, kids.”

He dropped the matches into the basin.

When your angel appeared, John jerked backward; using the wall to catch his fall.

“You bastards! I was in the middle of getting David Attenborough to say yes to me!”

“You, you’re alive?” Sam wrinkled his nose. 

“No thanks to you two. Or my brother.”

“Wait, what the hell do you want to do with David Attenborough?” Dean scrunched his face. 

“I wanted to record a documentary and mispronounce the word penguin. See how long it took anyone to correct him.” He leaned forward. “Are you...are you plastered right now?”

“Hold up.” John stumbled upright. “Jusswho are you?”

The angel turned to him. “You’re John Watson.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” He outstretched his hand. “Balthazar. Big fan of your blog.”

Your spell with Sherlock was broken upon the sound of glass breaking. You bolted in the hallway. With the detective on your heels, you crept towards the ruckus with your gun aimed.

But as you turned the corner, Balthazar smirked at the sight.

“Agent. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Who the fuck are you?” you growled.

Balthazar’s mouth hung open as he stared at you. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. But John cleared his throat and pointed to you.

“We’re problemed. Have a problem.”

Balthazar glared at the Winchesters. “What the hell have you done?”

As John drunkenly informed Balthazar about the issue at hand, the angel leaned his head back and drew in a breath.

“Not good, boys.”

“Yes, it’s very not good!” John whined. “Can, can you help us?”

“You’re an angel.” You narrowed your eyes at Balthazar, hand now firmly gripped around your blade. “John, get him out of here.” 

“This is just rude,” Balthazar snipped. “I can’t believe my brother scrubbed me from your memory. I mean, he did exactly that to prevent this from happening. But still...RUDE.”

“How alive are you?” Sam furrowed his brow.

“I’m not even going to entertain that question until you can form a coherent sentence.”

“How...do...you...know…” Dean’s eyes flitted between you and the angel.

“There’s a good boy.” Balthazar patted Dean on the side of the face. “But I’m sure there’s a reason she never told you about me. So until she’s in proper condition, I’m honoring her privacy.”

“He’s just going to fuck me up even more. Get him OUT OF HERE!”

But Sherlock placed his fingers along your forearm. He applied the gentlest of pressure to bring your blade to your side.

“We trust him.”

“Why? He’s one of—”

“Because you do.”

After a hard swallow, you redirected your gaze to Balthazar. He outstretched his hands and shrugged.

“We went to steal the Wings of Icarus. But only made it out with a feather.”

“What else did we see at Shrike’s place?”

“That’s where I swiped the Staff of Moses.”

“You stole that?”

“Of course! Heaven’s been trying to get that thing back for ages.”

You took a few steps toward him and bit your lip.

“Say I do believe you?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m here to help. Scout’s honor.”

“You assholes always have an angle. What are you after?”

“I’m here to repay a debt.”

“To whom?”

“You.”

You leaned your head back. “Me?”

“Yes, you helped me get out of my mess. Now I’m here to return the favor. Can’t have many blank checks floating around.”

“Can you...can you really give me back my memories?”

“If you want them.”

“Dean, I dunno,” Sam shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t, shouldn’t being…”

“Oh my Dad.” Balthazar rolled his eyes. “I can’t, I just can’t.”

He placed two fingers on each of their foreheads. In an instant, the Winchesters stood upright and shook out their faces.

“You’ll still get the hangover in the morning.” Balthazar winked at them and turned to John. “But not you.”

After Balthazar cured the inebriated state of every human in the bunker, Dean rubbed his forehead. 

“Alright, what do you need to fix her?”

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Sherlock growled.

“Her memories, Romeo.” Dean rolled his eyes. “What can you do to fix her memories?”

Balthazar took a step forward. But you tensed and leaned back into Sherlock. He tightened his grip around your arms.

“First, do you want them back?” Balthazar asked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the immediacy of your response. 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I have to.” You looked at him. “I have to remember you. All of you.”

Balthazar outstretched his palm and raised his eyebrows. “May I? Just to see what we’re working with?”

You glanced at Sherlock. But when he gave you a nod, you took a step forward and allowed Balthazar’s palm to press against your forehead. 

You closed your eyes as your head buzzed with a gentle warmth. After a moment, he withdrew and shook his head.

“You called a witch?” He scowled at the Winchesters.

“She was our best bet,” Sam said.

“It’s a tangled mess in there. Her magic mingled with the work Castiel did. I’m going to have to rip her down to the studs.”

“What?” John glared at him. “What the hell does that entail?”

“I need to clear out the undivine shitshow you put in there and regrow her memories.”

“You’re going to MiracleGro her memories? Can’t you just…” Dean tapped his forehead.

“Perhaps. If I was simply undoing what Castiel did. But not with the witch’s magic in there. It was never designed to course-correct. You know what that spell is used for?”

“To alter the memories according to the blood donor’s wishes,” Sherlock said. “Whatever they want for the recipient, even on a subconscious level, the memories are altered to fit that.”

“See?” Balthazar gestured to Sherlock. “This is why she upgraded.”

“What do you need to do to me?” you asked.

Balthazar looked on you with remorseful eyes. “It’s going to be...difficult. For you.”

“I don’t care. What do you need to do?”

“I need to erase most of your memories and gradually give you back your old ones. You’ll still know who you are. But you’re essentially going to have to relive most of them as they implant themselves in your mind.”

“No, we’re not doing this.” Dean shook his head. “We are not putting her through—”

“I’ll do it.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re signing yourself—”

“Sherlock told me everything, Dean. I know what I’m getting myself into. And I’m going to do this. I have to.”

“It’ll be like regrowing bones for your psyche,” Balthazar said. “You will want to give up partway through. I need to know now that this is what you want. Because I can’t stop once we start.”

“I understand.”

“How physically taxing will this be?” John asked.

“Overwhelmingly so.” Balthazar looked into your eyes. “You boys won’t want to see this.”

John rolled up his sleeves and shook his head. 

“I’m her doctor. You’re not touching her without my oversight.”

Smirking at John, Balthazar clapped his hands and rubbed them together. 

“Love it when the good ones take charge. Shall we get started?”

He disappeared and reappeared with a variety of ingredients in hand. Throwing them together, they blazed white-hot with a flourish of his wrist. 

Balthazar poured the concoction into a glass and raised his eyebrows at Sam.

“Where can I put her? Where she won’t…” He used two fingers to mimic running. 

“You want to put her in a dungeon?”

“I was going to say controlled containment center. But that’s much more concise.”

Sam rolled his eyes and led the way. But Dean put his hand to Balthazar’s chest and glared at him. 

“Grabby one, aren’t you?” Balthazar smirked. 

“If you mess her up…”

“You’ll what? Kill me? If you can’t tell, like you, it doesn’t stick.”

“She trusted you.”

“With. Good. Reason. Now, are you going to let me do my job? Or do you need an arse grab too? Castiel won’t be pleased.”

Grinding his teeth, Dean retracted his hand from the angel. He looked at you as you tilted your head at Sherlock. 

“You might feel differently about me when this is over,” the detective said. “And I, I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

Sherlock glanced down. But you squeezed his hand to redirect his attention. 

“You said it was never this easy. Go ahead and tell me before that changes.”

He swallowed and studied your face, unsure if—even after a lifetime—he’d ever see you like this again. 

“You...you are the love of my life.”

“These are all things I’ve said to you, aren’t they?” You smiled at him. 

“Yes, yes they are.”

“I’ll see you on the other side, detective. I look forward to loving you again.”

You pressed your lips to his cheek before following Balthazar down the hallway. 


	16. Divine Union

As the Winchester boys looked for the monster that killed their mother, you too became well versed in the language of monsters, spirits, and all things that go bump in the night. 

When you weren’t hunting, you were enduring attacks from your mother—it was your damn fault your father died, after all—or watching her drink herself to oblivion. But at least when she passed out, you finally got some peace and quiet. 

From adolescence onward, you took your education upon yourself; devouring books on lore, stories of lives you wished you could live, and you had a surprising knack for mathematics (even if you didn’t necessarily enjoy the subject matter). 

However, your favorite works were, by far, anything delving into the patterns of human behavior and the human mind. While it began as a curious fascination, the intrigue melted into a quiet quest to (perhaps, just perhaps) understand why you are the way you are. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

As your skill continued to surpass your mother’s minuscule expectations of you, you still prayed every night. You prayed to one day leave this life. Perhaps you’d run to a farm. If you could learn how to create fake IDs, you could learn how to farm, right? 

Maybe you would meet someone who would farm with you. You couldn’t even imagine the type of person who would be troubled by such a life; let alone one with you. So maybe you would learn how to bake and befriend a rowdy goat or chicken or two. 

But no matter what, you knew you would get out. You would get out one day. And you prayed that tomorrow would be that day.

Every. Single. Night.

After a particularly vivid dream about hunting a rougarou with your mother, your eyelids fluttered open to a hospital room. A doctor and nurse peered over your bedside. 

You furrowed your brow at the doctor—who was admittedly quite attractive...not that you knew anything in the ways of love; you were only a kid—and drew in a breath when your eyes landed on the nurse. You noted the kindness in his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

The nurse crossed his arms. “You, er, you were in an accident.”

“Am I in England?”

You started to sit up. But the doctor placed his hand on your shoulder and guided you back to the bed. 

“No,” he chuckled. “But you did get two of its finest, and if I say so, best looking medical professionals. Although your health care system is a sham.”

“My mom, where is my mom?”

“She’ll be here any moment,” the doctor replied. “But you were in an accident. We need you to take it easy...And answer one question for us. If you can.”

“Um, okay.”

The nurse looked at you with regretful eyes. You didn’t know what troubled his heart. But you hoped it would ease for him soon.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Sixteen,” you swallowed. “I’m sixteen.”

“Very good,” the doctor praised. “I have something to soothe your stomach. You’ve had bouts of nausea.”

He offered you a cup. But when the liquid touched your lips, you nearly spat it out. 

“That’s terrible!”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Grimacing, you looked at the nurse. But when he gave you a nod, you followed the doctor’s orders and downed the foul concoction. 

With a gentle smile, the doctor set the glass aside stroked your hair and, in an instant, you succumbed to slumber.

While you opened your eyes to an infirmary, John and Balthazar could only stare at you from the confines of the bunker dungeon walls.

Every time you woke up, they spun new lies like silk threads—with the promise of wrapping you in the blanket when it was completed. 

But every time you fell back asleep, Balthazar zapped the memory of him and John from your mind. And you relived your exhausting life in your sleep.

John dragged his hand down his face and sighed. 

“We’re getting close to when…”

“To when my brother entered her life.” Balthazar shook his head. 

“Your brother?” 

“Yes, the one who orchestrated her divine union.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me that it was your family who set her up with that piss-poor excuse of a man?”

“Yes, she was a contingency plan for a post-apocalyptic timeline. This one, in fact.”

“You know what this is all about, don’t you?”

But Balthazar crossed his arms and shook his head at you.

“It’s going to get difficult from here. I hope you are prepared.”

“I’m a soldier. I’m always ready.”

“I was too.” Balthazar raised his eyebrows. “And look how I ended up?”

As Dean cleaned his guns in his room, Sam leaned on the doorway and raised his eyebrows. 

“Maybe we should contact Crowley.”

Dean glared at him. “Do you really think he’s going to be helpful? We got enough miracles from the MacLeod family.”

“Alright, it was just a thought.”

Dean shook his head. But the Winchesters’ heads turned at the sound of pounding from the dungeon. They rushed downstairs and pressed themselves to the door. 

“Watson!” Dean called out. “Everything okay in there?”

“We, er, we’re handling it,” he replied, hand over his bleeding nose. 

Shoving the bed to pelt Balthazar in the stomach, you backed away from them and pointed your finger.

“My boyfriend will find me, you psychos! He’s going to find you and rip you to shreds!”

“It’s alright,” Balthazar cooed. “We’re here to help you.”

“You’re lying! There is only one person I trust and when he finds you two, he will punish you for taking me from him.”

If only you knew, there was no one coming. In any reality.

You walked along the wall. But when your back was to the door, John shouted Dean’s name.

Dean threw open the door and tackled you from behind. You writhed in his grasp but he and Sam quickly subdued you and placed you on the bed.

You snarled as you struggled against them. 

“He’s said he’d kill anyone who laid a hand on me! Let me go!”

But Balthazar placed two fingers to your head and your body went limp. 

“We’re going to have to try that again.” The angel rubbed his hands together. 

“Just what the hell are you doing to her?” Dean glared at him.

“Exactly what _she_ asked me to.”

John gestured to you. “She’s experiencing everything over in her sleep. But we have to wake her up to give her...whatever that is.”

“And for her memories to take root in the real world,” Balthazar added. “Processing all of it at once would overwhelm her and turn her into a vegetable. It’s a delicate process. Now get out!”

Grumbling to himself, Dean marched out of the dungeon. But Sam paused in the doorway. He looked at John with sorrowful eyes.

“You guys were right. She really thought that guy would take care of her.”

Balthazar and John stared at the floor as the sound of the door closing echoed off the walls. The angel drew in a breath and shook his head. 

“I thought, I thought she would know me by now. Which is why I didn’t…”

“We all make mistakes,” John replied.

Balthazar placed his hand on your shoulder and watched you breathe. But he redirected his attention when John cleared his throat. 

“This isn’t about repaying a debt,” the (real) doctor observed. 

Balthazar looked away and scratched the back of his head. 

“We can use the boyfriend angle to our advantage this time. When she finally remembers me, at least, a certain version, we can stop lying.”

He placed his hand on your head and sighed.

“But we’re still a few years out.”

You were in love. 

You’d never felt so safe, so accepted, so cared for. 

He made promises to you. Promises to protect you, to love you, to create a life with you. 

You melted into his life seamlessly. At least, it was seamless for him. 

But that was the point of your efforts as you contorted yourself to fit in. You changed your shape and size to fit into the various pockets of his life. You enjoyed his company in his free time; but scurried away when he had meetings with men who you dared not show yourself to.

You waited for him to find you interesting again. And when he did, it’s like the heavens opened to his warmth. For you were entirely his and he entirely yours. And in those small moments, like the punctuation of a story, you felt safe.

You felt loved.

So you continued to shapeshift. Because the periods and commas were lifegiving in your tale of worthless words. You shed your interests and adopted his. You learned to cook because you could capture his attention for an entire meal. You could change the very composition of who you were for the glimmers, the morsels of love, safety, and protection.

You gladly took on the labor of becoming his. 

It was the least you could do, after all.

And when you needed more from him, instead of asking for it, you gave him a pound of flesh.

You told him you loved him and he scoffed in reply.

But you repeated yourself. For years you repeated yourself as if saying the words would desensitize him or open a tiny enough hole in his heart for you to wriggle through. But he continued to nod and grunt at your sacrificial offering.

Until he needed you.

He used you for his pleasure. Foreign at first, you adapted quickly. It was what was expected of you, after all.

As your fingers dug into his back, you kissed him as if he loved you. 

As if. As if. As if.

Even though his touches, his actions, and eyes told you otherwise. He said he would protect you. He said he would keep you safe. And that was enough for you to monitor your internal clock for when his need would arise again.

But one day, he deemed you useful enough and promised you love. He promised you life. He gave you a ring.

Weeks later, you bickered. He pushed and pushed and pushed. And exhausted from him constantly demanding more from you, you yielded. 

When you gave into his demands to relocate your life (again), the ring he gave you broke in two under the pressure of the move. But, because he was incapable of remorse, you took that burden upon yourself and blamed you, blamed you, blamed you.

Until you truly believed it was your fault.

Yes, it was your fault for loving him.

He saw your union as permission to let down his mask. For he was exhausted from pretending around you. He had pretended for so long.

And now that you bound yourself to him, he didn’t have to hold himself accountable anymore. He made the mistake of letting you follow him that day. Or maybe he did it on purpose. He was so tired of pretending.

When you saw what he was really doing, he thanked the heavens for bringing you into his life. Because now, as his wife, you would never testify against him. He made sure of it.

So he took you under his wing, the very wing that would crush you, and indoctrinated you as his partner in crime. It was the only version of partnership that mattered to him. And perhaps this was a taste of what love felt like to emotional creatures like you.

Every one of his associates called you a picturesque vision of marriage. You smiled and said that you were, in fact, a team. Even though you knew he would sacrifice you in an instant anytime he was at risk. But that was a risk you gladly accepted. 

After all, you were his wife.

His physical interests expanded. He soon realized that his favorite place on your body was wrapping his hands around your throat rather than anything between your legs; although he might indulge himself now and again.

And as you continued to survive, survive, survive in a world where women only existed for the comfort of men, you found yourself at a bar. 

Vacantly staring at your drink as the ice cubes combatted each other for space, you set the glass down and buried your face in your hands. You were tired, so tired. But surely, it was because your job was quite taxing.

Yes, it was the job.

A man approached you and leaned on the bar. He snickered and you, an expert at playing the part, started stumbling into his arms.

“Easy there, darling. You seem to have lost your way.”

“I-I…”

You threw your hands into his hair and slammed his face into the bar.

“Thought you could slip something into my drink, you asshole?” you growled. “You chose the wrong mark. And I, I should know.”

But your finger hesitated over the trigger as you rammed the barrel to his stomach under the bar. Nostrils flaring, you whipped your head around as the bartender glared at you.

“Get off of him!” 

“But he tried to drug me!”

“I swear,” the man pleaded. “I didn’t, I didn’t do anything.

“I’m not a moron. I let you put something in my drink, you dick. Now, you’re going to pay.”

The bartender picked up the phone and shook his head. “I’m calling the cops.”

“No, no. She’s right.” A man at the other side of the bar called out. “I saw him slip something in there. If you call the police, they ought to arrest him.”

The bartender hung up the phone. You leaned in and whispered in your attacker’s ear.

“I’m going to let you go. But don’t worry, this isn’t over between us yet.”

You hid your gun and he disappeared in a blur. It wasn’t until he got home that he realized his wallet was gone. As you pocketed his ID and accompanying address, you started to strut out of the bar.

But, as Balthazar watched you walk away, something in his vessel’s stomach inspired him to call out to you. He had no earthly idea why he bothered defending you. You were just a human after all. 

Yet, there was something about you that piqued his curiosity. And if the dedicated soldier dared to defy orders and visit Earth now and again, he might as well make it worth his time.

“Share a drink with me?” the angel asked.

“Why would I stay here another minute?” You turned to examine him.

He raised his hands in defense. “Oh, I promise. If any drugs get into your system, it will be entirely consensual.”

You narrowed your eyes. But after a calculated moment, you took a seat next to him and glared at the bartender.

“I’ll have what he’s having. Since it’s easier for you to believe men.”

“I was watching him all night. I swear, if I had known…”

“But you did know. Because I told you. But it’s easier for you to believe British Barbie than a woman. So I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Excuse me?” Balthazar scowled at you.

“You saw a guy put something in my drink and you didn’t say anything.”

“You looked like you could handle yourself.”

But, to his surprise, you tilted your head to the side and scoffed.

“Most people underestimate me.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Yes, you’re either incredibly clever or a complete asshole.”

“Can’t I be both?”

When the bartender handed you your drink, you kissed the side of Balthazar’s glass with yours.

“You’re buying.” You took a gulp. “What do I call you?”

Finding you quite entertaining, the angel grinned and traced his finger over the rim on his glass.

“Balthazar.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“God given.” He smirked.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned over the edge of the bar and took a sip. You shook your head and set down your glass. Facing him, you cocked an eyebrow and crossed your arms. 

“Since we’re going with fake names, you can call me Agent.”

“You’re a federal agent?” the bartender asked with wide eyes.

You flashed your fake badge and flipped him off.

“You can bet I’m going to investigate your dumbass when I get to work tomorrow.”

Terror written across his face, the bartender dashed out of the building. You rolled your eyes. All heads turned at the screeching of his tires on the road as the man took his secrets with him.

Balthazar leaped to the other side of the bar. He poured you a double of whiskey and passed it across the amber wood.

“On the house,” he said with a grin.


	17. Apple Pie Life

When Sherlock refused to return to London, Mycroft was disappointed in himself for expecting anything otherwise. Thus, he was forced to call upon the assistance of the true professionals when it came to this brutish world of angels and demons.

Which is precisely how Mycroft Holmes found himself in his office with Mick Davies, of all people, standing on the other side of his desk.

Leaning back in his seat, Mycroft folded his hands over his stomach and drew in a breath; still in disbelief that he had to endure this situation at all.

“My brother is not built to withstand the everyday monstrosities of your occupation.”

“Understandable. Not many are.” The corner of Mick’s mouth upturned in the slightest (composed) smile.

“But, unfortunately for us,” Mycroft continued,” he caught the scent of a good mystery and refuses to return until he has solved the case. Who killed James Moriarty? Sherlock seems to be _indifferent_ to species now.”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft rose to his feet. He placed his knuckles to the desk and leaned over, piercing Mick with his gaze.

“I need him to stop playing hunter and return to his more suitable game of detective. But he’ll only return when the case is solved. Which is why I need your services.”

“We are more than willing to accept a favor from you.”

“I figured as much. So I am trusting you to expedite the process for him. And to do so covertly with a watchful eye. If he finds out I meddled in this situation, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Keep an eye on him while we simultaneously work the case. Understood.”

“I don’t care what happens to the rest of them. But nothing is to harm him or his two...companions. The boy has lost enough.”

Hands in his pocket, Mick grinned with certainty written across his face. Mycroft, for one, appreciated the look. 

“I have the perfect man for the job,” the Man of Letters reported. 

Mycroft closed his eyes. Leaning his head back, a gentle smile crept across his lips. He raised his eyebrows at Mick with a smirk.

“How I’ve missed civilized conversation.”

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, I am curious. Do you know the angel who killed James Moriarty?”

Hands clasped in front of him, Mick swallowed and looked down.

“No, sir.” He cleared his throat. “We are still completing our own investigation.”

“A shame. I feel compelled to write him a thank you note.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Although he could have laid out a tarp before dumping the body.”

With a snicker, Mick exited his office. He returned to the Men of Letters headquarters for a secondary examination of the consulting criminal’s body.

It would disappear in a few days. Not that he knew. 

Now, as Balthazar nursed your memories back to existence, Arthur Ketch drilled screws into Castiel’s skull. The angel gritted his teeth, denying the searing pain that burned through his vessel.

“If you won’t tell me who killed Jim Moriarty, perhaps you can enlighten me as to why you brought him back,” Arthur teased.

He tightened the screw with a flash of delight in his eyes. The strong, silent types were his favorite, after all.

Unable to maintain his composure, Castiel growled in pain. But he glared at the contractor and upturned his lip in a snarl.

“You’re...not….getting…. _anything_...from me.”

Arthur paced circles around him. Clicking his tongue, he shook his head.

“You say that like you’re my only option. If not you, I have other leads to follow. You’re just the most fun.”

“You act so aware. But your people completely missed the demon skirting around with him for years.”

“Oh, no. We knew. We wanted to keep an eye on the King of Hell. And tracking his demon turned contract killer was an easy way to do that.”

Arthur stabbed Castiel’s thigh with an angel blade. Castiel threw his head back with an anguished cry. But his pain was only magnified by the enchanted screws that pierced his head.

Yanking out the blade with a grunt, Arthur smirked at the pain painted across his victim’s face.

“Talk about a demotion,” Arthur chuckled. 

When he turned his back to retrieve a new weapon, Castiel bore his eyes into the back of his head. Panting and relieved for a moment of peace, he closed his eyes and extended his consciousness to anyone who would listen.

Praying his actions were not beyond redemption.

At the bunker, Sam passed by Sherlock’s open door. When the detective looked at him with eager eyes, Sam could only put his hands in his pockets and shake his head. 

Without a word exchanged, the hunter strode down the hallway; unsure of when this nightmare would end.

Defeated, Sherlock threw himself to his bed. Like you did when you the demands of life consumed you, he placed his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling. 

But it didn’t work for him.

Fortunately for Sherlock, his insomnia finally caught up to him. Before he could endure the boredom of examining the cracks in the ceiling (and dismissing the howling of his mind), Hypnos came to collect and drifted the detective to slumber.

However, when he did finally fall asleep, Sherlock was haunted by dreams of you. 

Sitting in his chair at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s eyes flew open to the sight of you and John bickering in the kitchen. Table overflowing with lab equipment, he only had a view of your faces as you vigorously shook your head. 

“You are not moving out, John! Everything will be the same. Exactly the same!”

“You are in complete denial. No, it’s, it’s time. It was time long ago.”

“You are family. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

But when you threw your hands out, Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open at the rings that glimmered from your finger. His eyes darted to his own hand, furrowing his brow at the apparent mate to the metal that adorned your hand. 

“You two have lost your minds!” John pleaded.

He smiled and gestured to the beakers, burners, and graduated cylinders that towered over the kitchen table.

“Do you really think this is safe?”

“We have time! Months. We’ll take care of it by then,” you protested. 

“God help us all.” John buried his face in his hands. 

“Sherlock.” You whipped your head around. “Tell him he doesn’t have to leave.”

But Sherlock could only suck in a breath and hold it as you hobbled to plop in John’s chair. Hands over your alarmingly swollen belly, by his calculations you were at 18 weeks, you shook your head.

“My feet are killing me.”

“You gained thirteen pounds.” Sherlock stared at you with terror written across his face. 

“She should be at twenty,” John corrected. 

You slammed your eyes closed and wrinkled your nose. 

“This, this is just weird. Can you please not talk about my body like this? I’m already an incubator. It’s weird enough.”

“I don’t know how you two are going to survive as parents.” John rolled his eyes. “Or how your child will survive your parenting.”

But you blinked a few times as you examined Sherlock’s expression. 

“Are you okay, my love?”

Mouth hanging open, he only continued to stare at you. 

“Is it the name Jamie?” You tilted your head to the side. “I know Jim insisted. And by insisting, he meant threatening innocents. But we can still call them by a middle name. You would know.”

But just as Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, time froze. You sat with a curious expression permanently etched on your face, fingers tapping midair along your stomach. With John behind you and dragging his hand halfway down his face. 

“I think Dean calls it the Apple Pie Life,” Castiel spoke lowly from behind Sherlock. 

Hands gripping the edge of the armrest, Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at the angel.

“What have you done to her?”

“I can fix her.”

“You’re never touching her again.”

“I can make her better than before. I can make her like this for you.”

“Get out of my mind,” Sherlock growled. 

Castiel tilted his head to the side and shrugged. 

“I know this is what Dean dreamed about. But you two are not the same. Perhaps you prefer a different configuration.”

With a swipe of his wrist, Sherlock was at Marcus’ flat. But instead of you ramming your gun to John’s head, your fingers were tangled in your hair. 

“You two blew my cover!”

Sherlock jerked his head back at your accent...your London accent. 

“You wanted him to take you?” John asked, horrified. 

“Yes!” You threw out your hands. “I’m an investigative journalist, you pricks!”

“We, we were working this case too.” John put his hands on his hips.

“Wait, I know you.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re John Watson. The blogger. Which makes you...Sherlock Holmes.”

Dragging your hands down your face, you groaned.

“You’ve got you be fucking kidding me! It takes the two of you to do my job. I’m an investigator and a writer. Just who do you think you are? Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple?”

“Hold on…” John paused. “I know you too. I’ve seen your face. Sherlock, where do we know her from? I swear…”

John clapped his hands and pointed at you. 

“Lestrade’s desk! There’s a photo of you. You’re his...girl—”

“Sister!” you shrieked. “And before you ask, yes. Adopted. And if you tell him I was doing this, I will write a piece on you that so exquisitely highlights your deductive skills on investing affairs, you’ll be buried in scorned lovers for years!”

The scene froze and Castiel grinned at Sherlock. 

“I can rewrite your story.”

“Her accent…” Sherlock breathed. 

“She’s never been to the United States. Never been married. Never met Dean Winchester. And this Gavin or George or Greyson—you have too many names on file—Lestrade certainly looks at her differently now.”

“But she’s still…”

“The rest of her personality traits have remained primarily intact. Her subconscious mind no longer runs from dangers that do not exist.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I could never.”

“I can take us back to that night.” Castiel looked at him. “Time travel. It is possible. I can take us back the night where I...ruined everything. And prevent it from happening. No altered memories. No Moriarty. You can start the case over.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Why are you offering this to me?”

“Because I need something from you.”

“No, Lucifer was an angel. I’m not making a deal with another devil.”

“My brother was misguided. And he is repenting for his sins in Hell. But I do not require much of you. I simply ask that you pass a message along to Dean.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

But, before he could answer, Castiel placed his hand over his stomach and buckled over. Blood trickled from his temples as he raised his gaze to Sherlock. Gritting his teeth, Castiel grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and growled.

“Tell him where I am. And tell him that I am in trouble.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I…” Castiel jerked back and cried out in pain. “I will be in your debt.”

Just as the angel relayed the address, Sherlock bolted awake. 

Feeling, admittedly, a little out of his depth. 

What had he gotten himself into?


	18. Don't Play Hero

Within five minutes of conversation with you, Balthazar knew exactly why he was drawn to your sorry soul. You were just like him: acting on orders you didn’t believe in and unable to escape.

Playing the part, he crossed his arms and leaned over the bar. Slurring his words, he snickered at you.

“You, you’re okay for a, a fed.”

“Just what exactly do you do, Balthazar?” you laughed.

“I, er, soldier. Imma soldier.”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head and took a sip of your drink. Setting the glass on the bar, you narrowed your eyes at him and scoffed.

“Not with that tolerance level, you aren’t. But, as someone familiar with fake names, fake jobs, and fake identities, I don’t care what you do for a paycheck.” You raised your eyebrows. “Are you sticking around?”

“Per-perhaps?”

“Well, I’ll be here next week to drown my guilt in vodka or...whatever it is you made me. Somehow, your drinks get better the drunker you get.”

“Like many things.” He grinned.

“You should apply for a job here.” You hopped off the barstool. “If you have nowhere else to go.”

When you left the establishment, Balthazar bolted upright. He swiped his palms across each other before polishing off your drink, taking a mental note of the exact proportion and mixture of molecules.

Exactly seven days later—he still couldn’t believe his father rested on the  _ seventh _ day; if it were up to him, he wouldn’t have started working at all—Balthazar snuck back to earth and wandered into the very same establishment.

Strutting behind the bar, he grinned at the bartender.

“Just who the hell do you think you are?” She scowled at him. “You’re not allowed back here.”

“Oh, did they not tell you? I’m new. You’re supposed to be, um...training me?”

“Training you? No, I don’t have time to deal with a newbie. Lin should know better.”

“Yeah, leave it to Lin to try your razor-thin patience. I promise it’s on the employee schedule. I’ll show you when you help me punch in?”

“They didn’t even show you how to clock in?”

“‘Fraid not.”

Rolling her eyes, the bartender threw her rag to the counter and gestured for Balthazar to follow her. 

In the backroom, she narrowed her eyes at the schedule. 

“Just what did you say your na—”

Balthazar tapped her forehead and caught her limp body in his arms. Setting her in the office chair, he put his hands on his hips and smirked.

“I promise to give you my tips.”

Exactly twenty-one minutes later, you sauntered into the bar and beamed at the angel.

“How did you convince anyone to let you back there?”

“There was an open position,” Balthazar snickered.

You took a seat and he slid a glass across the counter. Taking a whiff, you threw your head back and wrinkled your nose.

“What the hell did you put in this?”

“Trust me, you’ll like it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. But after examining the glean behind the soldier’s eyes, you threw your head back and took a gulp. With a gasp, you slammed the glass back to the bar.

“Hot damn.”

“You’re welcome.”

And thus began your friendship with Balthazar, Angel of the Lord.

Unbeknownst to both of you, you each told your respective bosses that you were working a job; following a mark who could only be studied on this particular evening of the week.

Which, in fairness to the truth, was partially accurate.

You moaned about the exhaustion of your job while he lamented to the tune of following orders. The sense of solidarity was foreign to both of you. But you soaked it up like earth after a drought.

Over the weeks, Balthazar refined his mixology skill. However, he was only concerned with the palate of, quite literally, one human on all of Earth. Eventually, the establishment’s patrons—even their regulars—avoided the bar on this particular night of the week.

One evening, you set down your glass and looked around the ghost town with a laugh.

“You successfully cleared this place out.”

“I know. You tip terribly.”

After throwing a crumpled bill across the bar, you leaned back in your stool and smirked. He slid it back to you and shook his head.

“I’m uninterested in your money.”

“You’re running this place out of business.”

“And here I thought my drinks were getting better.”

“They are.” You raised your glass. “You’re just a fucking liar.”

“I beg your pardon?” Balthazar jerked his head backward.

“Your manners are cute. You should use them more often.”

“How did, how did you know?” His eyes widened. “You know about...me?”

“Because you’re terribly obvious. You’re making shit drinks to run everyone out of this place.”

Balthazar closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “Right, um, call me a man of many talents.”

And, for the first time since he met you, Balthazar wondered if he should keep lying.

Then again, the only beings who cared about the truth were monsters anyway.

  


Your eyes fluttered open to soak in the sight of the very bar you once visited religiously. Furrowing your brow, you rose to your feet as you peeled your body from the floor.

“Balthazar?” You squinted at him. “What the hell did you give me?”

“You outdid yourself.” He smirked at you and slid a glass across the bar. “This will help.”

The moment the liquid touched your lips, you spat it out. “The fuck is this?”

“Hangover concoction. Now drink up.”

Glaring at him, you obeyed. Although not without searing your gaze into him over the rim of the glass. Slamming it back to the counter, you wrinkled your nose at him.

“What happened? I don’t remember anything. I...I don’t drink to the point of blacking out. I just hit this, this…”

“Truth serum drunk,” a man said from the end of the bar.

You whipped your head around and stared at him.

“You, er,” John cleared his throat, “you said it right before you passed out.”

“Who the fuck are you? Balthazar, what the heck is going on? I’m...no, this isn’t good.” Your eyes widened. “I have to get back. He’s going to be pissed. I fucked up. I really fucked up.”

Throwing your hand into your hair, you started stumbling to the door. But it hurt, everything hurt. You were weak...so weak.

Not good.

Very not good.

Fumbling over your feet, Balthazar was suddenly in front of you—how did he get there so fast?—you shoved him away from you and started shaking your head furiously.

“No, no, no. What time is...where is my phone?” 

You staggered backward and John hooked his arms under yours. But you spun around and grabbed the lapels of his jacket.

“What did you drug me with?” you growled. “I’m going to—”

But your pupils blew wide open as Balthazar appeared behind John and held up his palms.

“Nothing happened to you. You’re okay. I just need you to tell me what you remember. Remember of me?”

You threw John aside and stared at Balthazar.

“You...you shouldn’t be able to move like...what are you?”

“Oh, shit.”

Before you could react, John pounced on you from behind and wrapped his arms around you. You writhed in his grasp as Balthazar rushed toward you.

“I don’t know what you are,” you spat, “but you better stay the hell—”

He tapped your forehead and you went limp.

John set you to the bed and dragged his hand down his face.

“How did she react when she found out you’re…”

“An  _ Angel of the Lord _ ?” Balthazar mockingly finished.

“Er, yeah.”

“Just swimmingly.” He beamed at John. “We’re almost there.”

  


After a moment’s calculation, Sherlock dashed to the library. In the doorway, he sucked in a breath and shook his head. 

“Castiel is in trouble.”

“What?” Dean looked up from his laptop. “I haven’t heard from him since this all started and now he needs something? Just what the hell is he doing talking to you?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Probably knew you’d just yell at him.”

“You’re damn right I would!”

“A dream,” Sherlock said. “He appeared in...he’s physically compromised.”

Dean sprang to his feet. “What did he say?”

Sherlock relayed the information from the seraph. But when the Winchesters were ready to leave—relieved to be free from the bunker—Sherlock held out his hand to stop them. 

“Let me come with.”

“Not a chance.” Dean shook his head. 

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Sherlock growled. “I am utterly useless.”

“Exactly why you’re not coming with us.”

Dean stomped past him. But Sam, feeling equally as helpless, nodded for Sherlock to follow. 

  


Castiel wasn’t far away. But far enough for the Impala to fill with agonizing silence as Dean drilled his eyes onto the road.

After a deep breath, Sam glanced at him. “Do you think it’s Crowley?”

“I don’t know, Sam. We gotta be prepared for everything.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes out the window. “Castiel has a number of enemies.”

“What’s it to you?” Dean wrinkled his nose.

“You’ll be more effective if you bother with the mental energy to extrapolate possible outcomes. I’ve calculated six so far.”

“Yeah, Einstein? I’ve got one. Go for the head.”

“Or the heart,” Sam added. “Depending on, y’know.”

“Dude.” Dean glared at him.

“I’m just saying! A little mental preparation might be a good, I don’t know, change for us.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and tightened his grip around the steering wheel.

“Okay, Cas’ enemies. Well, we’ve got Crowley simply because he’s a douche. And, oh right, every fricken’ angel on earth  _ including _ the one fiddling around with your girlfriend’s grapefruit.”

“Not my girlfriend,” Sherlock muttered.

“And then there’s you,” Dean continued. “I’m surprised you even bothered to mention anything. Because I have a feeling you wouldn’t mind Cas getting his ass beat.”

“Your deductive skills are improving. Perhaps you did read my website.”

“Not that you could do it.”

“Dean.” Sam swallowed.

“I mean it, Sammy! In a showdown between Detective Button-up and Cas, Cas would win. Hands do—”

Sherlock threw his forearm over Dean’s throat and clamped down. He tightened his grip as Dean smacked his palm on the steering wheel. As the Impala started to veer from the asphalt, Sam helped peel Sherlock’s arm from Dean.

Glaring at both of them, Sherlock slammed his back against the backseat.

Dean hacked a cough and recomposed himself.

“I swear to GOD!” He gagged. “You are one deranged PSYCHO!”

“I’m a high functioning sociopath,” Sherlock barked.

Sam dragged his hand down his face and groaned. “Guys, focus. Cas. We have to make it there in one piece.”

“But we can take our time.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

When they were finally, finally, finally outside the warehouse, Dean turned off the engine and whipped around. Arm hanging over the back of the seat, he pointed his gun at Sherlock and narrowed his eyes. 

“You’re a dick.”

“Did you ask her?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

Eyes bugging out of his head, Dean clenched his teeth.

“Dean, Cas,” Sam reminded.

After a swallow, Dean shook his head and growled.

“I’m not a damn babysitter. You’re staying here. Don’t move. Don’t think about moving. In fact, don’t think at all. Just stay here and stay out of my way.”

“Dean,” Sam scoffed. “I think he can—”

“Sam! We don’t know what the hell we’re walking into and she’d KILL ME if anything happened to him. Until he’s got more miles on him in this world,  _ our world _ , the detective stays put. Let’s go.”

Dean swung open the door and stormed out of the car. But just as Sherlock started processing the array of possibilities for his involvement, Dean slammed his palm against the side of the car and rammed a finger to the back driver’s side window.

“And she will kill you too. She will have Balthazar bring you back just to murder your dumbass. So don’t even think about it. Nothing about this situation requires you playing hero.”

Oh, Dean. If only you knew.

There are no heroes here.


	19. God's Plan

Done.

Dean was so fucking done.

Done with losing. Done with love. Done with douchebags.

Yeah, he was especially done with douchebags. Douchebags with their fancy shirts and sociopathic tendencies and arrogant accents.

Those stupid freakin’ accents.

He gritted his teeth as Arthur Ketch held an angel blade to Castiel’s throat.

“Okay, okay.” Sam held up his gun and lowered it to the concrete. “We, we can talk this out.”

“And?” Arthur raised his eyebrows.

Upper lip twitching, Sam kicked his gun out of reach. Arthur redirected his gaze to Dean and grinned.

“Your turn.”

“Dean,” Castiel grunted. “Just ki—”

Arthur smirked and pressed the blade firmer into Castiel’s skin, effectively silencing the angel.

Barely suppressing a growl, Dean obeyed. He held up his palms next to Sam and stared at Castiel, nostrils flaring.

“Cas, we’re going to get you out of this. Away from this complete psycho.” He narrowed his eyes at Arthur. “Or are you another high functioning sociopath?”

“Trust me when I say that remorse is not within my emotional repertoire,” Ketch sneered.

He retrieved the Winchester’s guns. But when he picked up Sam’s, Dean lunged toward him. In an instant, Ketch had the barrel pointed at Sam’s head and the elder Winchester held up his hands in defeat.

“Honestly.” Arthur rolled his eyes as he made his way behind Castiel. “You are utterly predictable.”

He withdrew the angel blade and prodded Castiel’s back. After extracting a pained grunt from the angel, he shot Dean in the shoulder.

With his own gun.

“SON OF A—”

“DEAN!” Sam rushed to his brother’s side.

“How’s your plan going to talk this out?” Dean snarled, palm pressed to the open wound.

“I’m not the one who shot you!”

“Dean, get out of here,” Castiel panted. “He’s just going to—”

“Kill me?” Dean stumbled upright. “That won’t go very well.”

Ketch fired a round between Dean’s feet and snickered.

“Thank you for confirming my suspicion. You made this all too easy for me, Castiel. Agree to my terms or I’ll continue adding holes to your pets for as long as their bodies will let me.” 

“Cas, what the hell does he want?” Dean growled.

“I will not  _ fix her _ .” Castiel glared at Arthur. “I have to keep him safe.”

Dean shot daggers at the angel with his gaze.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me? This nutjob wants you to do what I’ve been asking for all along? For Christ’s sake, Cas. What are you so afraid of? We already know everything about her messed up past. Get back and fix her damn memories!”

“This isn’t, isn’t about her past,” Castiel grunted.

Ketch rolled his eyes and aimed the gun at Sam.

“Whoa, whoa.” Sam raised his hands. “You don’t have to...Cas, just do what he says. We’re trying to get her memories back anyway.”

But right as Ketch fired the gun, Sherlock tackled Sam to the concrete. The bullet barely grazed the detective’s back as the two collided to the floor.

With a gasp, Sherlock rose to his feet and glared at Arthur.

“Stand behind me,” he spat.

“What? No!” Dean scowled. “I told you not to—”

“He can’t touch me.”

Holding up his hands, Sherlock took a step forward.

“So this is the cavalry?” he laughed. “Mycroft couldn’t be bothered to commune with angels and demons so he sends a psychopath to do his dirty work?”

“You know this asshat?” Dean wrinkled his nose, inching behind Sherlock as Ketch begrudgingly lowered his weapon.

“It’s time to return to London, Mr. Holmes.” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I’m simply fulfilling orders.”

But Sherlock only shook his head. “If you’re torturing the angel, then you know exactly why I can’t return. Not yet, at least. But I will the moment we restore her memory. It will only be a matter of days.”

“No, no.” Castiel leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Balthazar.”

Sherlock glared at him. 

“Yes, we found the dirty little secret you both tried to hide from us. And now she will not only remember me and your precious Winchester. But she will also have to endure everything you put her through at the hands of James Moriarty.”

His eyes darted to Ketch and back to Castiel.

“If he doesn’t kill you, I certainly will,” Sherlock threatened.

“Okay.” Sam peered over Sherlock’s shoulder. “No one is killing anyone. We all, well almost all of us, want the sa—”

But he ducked back as a bullet whizzed by his ear.

“Dude!” Dean protested. “And you call  _ us _ the trigger happy ones?”

Sherlock’s step faltered as he closed in on Ketch.

“I will tell my brother that you shot me,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “And he will certainly handle your superiors.”

Sherlock yanked on the collar of Ketch’s shirt. 

“Drop it,” Sherlock commanded.

After a hard swallow, Arthur released his grips around the gun and angel blade. Sherlock pursed his lips and outstretched his palm, awaiting the second Winchester firearm.

The moment Arthur completed the handoff, Sherlock knocked him out with a clean punch to the jaw. The detective caught him just in time to allow his skull a generous, but not life-threatening, descent to the cement.

As Sam unscrewed the enchanted equipment from Castiel’s head, Dean glared at the angel.

“You wanna tell us the hell is going on? I got shot because of your stubborn ass.”

“I only,” Cas grunted. “I think I can try, try to heal...I might…”

He gasped as the final screw was released from his head. 

Sam shook out his blood-covered hands as he tossed the cursed metal aside. But he instantly hooked his arms under Castiel’s as the angel stumbled to stand upright. 

Castiel outstretched his hand and gained his footing.

“Dean.”

Hand over his shoulder, Dean jerked backward.

“Not until you—”

“DEAN!”

With a hard swallow, Dean inched forward. He hissed an inhale as the familiar glow of Castiel’s powers partially healed his gunshot wound.

“That’s all I can, all I can…” Castiel started.

“Cas, we gotta get you fixed up. C’mon. We’ll, we’ll figure this out. He didn’t mean what he said ‘bout killing you.” Dean nodded to Sherlock.

But Castiel looked at him with somber eyes. 

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

The angel was gone.

In your angelically induced slumber, you set your glass on the bar and smiled at Balthazar. 

“You look upset.” You tilted your head to the side.

“No, um.” He cleared his throat. “They’re simply...cutting my hours.”

“Something’s wrong. I can tell.”

Gripping the edge of the bar, Balthazar looked down and shook his head. It was getting harder and harder to hide from you. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I learned something about a friend of mine,” he replied.

“You have friends?”

“Are we not…”

“Besides me, asshole.”

He drew in a breath and smirked. But you could still see the heaviness clinging to his expression, unwilling to go gently into the facade.

“Yes, erm. I do have friends. Ones who are infinitely more generous with their compliments than you.” Balthazar rolled his eyes.

You snickered and set down your drink.

“But I recently learned.” the angel continued, “that my brother hurt a dear friend of mine.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings.”

“Too many to keep track of, I’m afraid.”

“What did he do? Your brother?”

“He—”

But Balthazar stopped mid-sentence as your pupils blew wide open. Your breath caught in your throat as Clint took a seat next to you.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked. He nodded to Balthazar. “I’ll take whatever she’s having.”

“You wouldn’t like it.” You swallowed.

Your gaze flickered downward as you shook your head. 

“Just, um, get him a beer. Something dark, please.”

But Balthazar could only stare at your husband.

“I must say...” Clint clicked his tongue as he looked around the empty bar. “I shouldn’t have expected much from you. But either  _ this _ man is a person of interest or you’re a lying, manipulative bitch. And since we both know the second is true—”

“I think you should leave,” Balthazar said.

“Clint.” You sucked in a breath. “You’re destroying everything I’ve—”

“I’m no idiot, wife. Don’t pretend you have a cover here. And that you’re trying to recruit this delicate thing.” He wrinkled his nose at Balthazar. “What secret projects are you hiding from me?”

“Don’t do this,” you whispered.

“Oh, baby girl. You forget. You’re the one making me do this to you.”

Your stomach twisted in knots as he rose to his feet. Flinching, you were just about to slam your eyes closed. But Balthazar latched his palm to Clint’s forehead and his body collapsed to the floor.

With wide eyes, you jolted back and scrambled away from him

“No, no, no, no!” you shrieked. “You all, you all promised me you would leave me alone! I was supposed to be out. You promised me I would be OUT!”

You stared at Clint.

“He’s not, not…”

“Not dead,” Balthazar answered.

Clenching your fists and trembling—Balthazar found the entire look unsettling—you shook your head and gritted your teeth.

“What does Zachariah want from me now?” you whimpered.

“I’m not here on orders. I promise you.” 

Balthazar appeared in front of you. But you shoved a chair between you—not that it would matter.

“Please,” Balthazar pleaded. “You have to believe me.”

“He promised me he could get me out and that I would be out for good. All I had to do was talk to one man. That man.”

You pointed to Clint. 

“And I...I don’t know if I prefer human evil to monstrous. But please, please I am begging you all to leave me alone. I can’t take any more lies from your kind. Did he send you to spy on me?”

“Look at me.”

After a gulp, you obeyed. It took every ounce of your composure to maintain eye contact with him. Balthazar found your internal struggle distasteful on all fronts.

“Truly, Agent. Look at me.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know what people want. What they are most deeply craving. Now tell me, what do I want?”

Your lip trembled as you examined him. This couldn’t be happening. What were the chances you stumbled into a bar with an angel hiding amongst the disgruntled patrons?

But, sucking in a breath, you did what did best. You followed orders and took in the face of this particular angel. The one you, only moments before, called friend.

“Freedom,” you whispered.

“Tell me, have I lied to you?”

Unable to tear your gaze away from him, you gritted your teeth and shook your head.

“I was trying to think of a way to tell you,” Balthazar said. “Which is why I looked into your past. And that’s how I found—”

“The deal your asshole brother gave me.”

“For what it’s worth, I can’t stand him either.”

But when you refused to look at him again, Balthazar took another cautious step forward. You backed yourself closer to the wall. His vessel’s chest—for whatever reason—ached at the sight.

“I can make you forget,” he said. “Make you forget this ever happened and we can go back to the way things were. We can be, as you so eloquently stated, friends, asshole.”

“Or so I won’t come back here with my angel blade just to kill you.”

“Self preservation would be an added benefit. But I promise you this isn’t, this isn’t for me.” He looked into your eyes and gave you a solemn nod. “I’d rather you forget and have one friend than remember and have no one.”

“Who says I have no friends?”

“Agent. We are both well trained liars. And I believe we are far more similar than you’d like to admit.”

With all of your being you hated him—hated him for being right.

But after a deep breath, you straightened your posture and rolled out your shoulders. You swallowed and shook your head, eventually returning your gaze to him. 

“They don’t know the real reason you’ve been down here?” you asked.

“It seems we are, what do they say? In the same boat.”

“And that’s why you continued showing up here. Riding...whoever that is.”

“He was trying to get into the adult entertainment industry but simply didn’t have the skill. Honest, I’m doing him a favor.”

“But you didn’t seek me out? This was all a...a grand coincidence? Am I really supposed to believe that?”

“I found you quite uninteresting. That is until you assaulted the hairless ape. Then, even I admit that your company exceeded my expectations.”

“Flattering.” Your gaze flickered to Clint. “But you couldn’t kill him. They would know.”

“I don’t, I don’t what he’s for. Or you for that matter.”

“Why, I feel so special right now.”

“But that’s exactly my point. I have no idea why my brother reached out to you and put you in contact with...with that.”

“God’s plan.”

“Even my father wouldn’t look in his direction.” Balthazar scowled at Clint. “No, there’s something else. I don’t know what. But I, I can find out for you.”

“And risk getting caught? Risk defying orders? Your kind isn’t known for—”

“I understand your prejudice. But if you could just tone it down for the sake of me making it through the rest of this conversation, I would be eternally grateful.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head. “Your real name is Balthazar.”

“I told you from the beginning. It’s God-given.”

“They call me Eve.” You look at him with somber eyes.

“Oh, please no. The first one was hopelessly lonely and the second was simply monstrous. I can’t. It’s unbecoming of you. Agent it is...if I may continue addressing you as such?”

“Yes, Balthazar. You may. Since we are...friends.”

His shoulders relaxed as the thumping in his vessel’s chest subsided, relieved that he no longer had to lie to you.

And that he, Balthazar, Angel of the Lord, found a human worth befriending. Perhaps his father did know what he was doing after all...when it came to you at least.

The next thing you knew, your eyes flew open to see Balthazar staring back at you. Your body convulsed in shivers as beads of sweat collected along your hairline. John gulped at the sight. You were going to have to hydrate soon.

“Balthazar,” you whimpered. “His memories. You have to clear Clint’s memories so he won’t come back.”

The angel smirked.

“Welcome back, Agent. Welcome back.”


	20. The Vanilla Bean Seed

Guzzling a jug of water, you stared at Balthazar with wide eyes. You set down your hydrating salvation and cocked an eyebrow.

“Now I’m supposed to drink that?” you asked.

Sitting in a chair next to you, he nodded to the foul mixture.

“Exactly.” 

“It looks disgusting.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It is.”

You gave him a deadpan expression, only inciting a smirk in reply. Shaking your head, you picked up the glass. As you leaned your face forward, Balthazar held up a finger.

“Don’t smell it first. It’ll only make it worse.”

You downed the required amount before you could think much of it. Shoving the glass in his available hands, you hacked a cough and scowled at John.

“And who is this?”

John opened his mouth to speak but the angel beat him to it.

“My assistant.”

“Oh, God.” John rolled his eyes.

You furrowed your brow. “What are you?” 

“Human, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I thought you couldn’t stand us?” You raised a brow at Balthazar.

“I…” He extended his hands. “Well, I can’t. Prefer to avoid the lot of you whenever possible. But you know, duty calls and whatnot.”

“And this duty is restoring some mysterious memories of mine?”

“What year is it?” he asked.

You answered...the wrong answer. John held up his mobile and your eyes widened at the screen.

“Years,” you breathed. “I’m, I’m missing years?”

“The golden years of our adventures together.” Balthazar beamed at you.

You sucked in a breath and shook your head. Stomach twisting in knots, you placed your palm to your abdomen and leaned back on the bed.

“Balthazar…” You stared at the ceiling. “How long have I been here? Wherever this is?”

He and John exchanged a glance. You bolted upright at their silence.

“He’s going to kill me when he finds me. I have to, I have to reach out and...your phone. Give me your phone.”

You outstretched your hand. But John’s face paled as he looked at Balthazar.

“Oh c’mon!” you complained. “I know you could just fuck up his memories when he gets here. But that won’t help anyone who receives his misplaced anger when he finds out I’m missing.”

“I already,” Balthazar cleared his throat, “I already took care of him.”

“What did you do?”

“You’ve only been gone a few days. He believes you’re going undercover at a local college. Doesn’t expect to hear from you until it’s time for extraction.”

Your heart rate started slowing down as you paced the dungeon.

“Okay, if you, if you promise he’s not looking for me.”

“I promise, he is not.”

“Then where the hell are we?” You whipped around and looked at John. “Is this your place? You’re a hunter? I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Um, of sorts.”

“And I drink that nasty stuff and all these memories are supposed to flood my mind?”

“In your sleep,” Balthazar replied. “They play out in your dream state and implant themselves when you’re awake.”

“So I sleep and then—”

But all three of you whipped your heads around.

“JOHN!” Sam shouted. “We could use your help!”

“Oh, shit.” Balthazar rubbed his palms on his knees and rose to his feet. Rolling his eyes, John marched out of the dungeon. What had the Winchesters gotten themselves into this time?

Your heart started hammering in your chest as your pupils blew wide open.

“Who’s that? How many people know I’m here?” 

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. We’re just...renting.”

“Renting?! Balthazar, do you know how many enemies I have? How many people either want to use me or want me dead? I can’t just—”

“You’re all right.” He held out his hands. “I’ve got you.”

“I fucked up, didn’t I? I really fucked up.”

“No, you didn’t do anything...you did nothing wrong.”

“You were always such a fucking liar.” You gulped. “Like me.”

“Flattering as always, Agent.”

“I take it you won’t tell me what really happened?”

“For now...it’s better if you rest.”

“Rest doesn’t come easily to me.” 

Balthazar drew in a deep breath. He took a step forward and extended two fingers.

“That’s exactly why I’m here.”

Gritting your teeth, you looked into his eyes. But his expression passed your inspection. So you swallowed and gave him a nod.

“Alright, asshole. Do your worst.”

And you were, to Balthazar’s great relief, asleep once again. He laid you and across the bed and took his seat next to you, eyes never leaving your body as you relieved the golden years of your friendship.

But some of the worst of your life.

John examined Sam’s handiwork on both Dean and Sherlock. But to the doctor’s relief, the hunter’s skills were about as good as you could get in the field.

Hands on his hips, he cocked an eyebrow at the disgruntled trio.

“Why didn’t you ask the angel to heal you?”

“He did. The best he could before disappearing again,” Dean replied.

“No.” John narrowed his eyes. “The one you’ve got in the dungeon.”

“He’s a dick.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“You’d rather endure a gunshot wound and risk infection than ask for help from him? He’s patching up your girlfriend right now.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Dean snipped.

John pointed at Sherlock. “Or is she not  _ your _ girlfriend? I can never keep track.”

Sherlock groaned and leaned back in his chair, only to hiss and inhale and bolt upright.

“Oh, right,” Sam said. 

He dashed out of the room and returned with a necklace in hand. Offering it to Sherlock, he tilted his head to the side and grimaced.

“Until you’re healed. Better to be safe than sorry. Especially since Crowley’s involved.”

After a swallow, Sherlock accepted the anti-possession amulet and threw it over his neck. Sam rubbed his hands together and took a seat.

“Thanks by the way. For...y’know.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock bore his eyes into the floor. After a moment, he cautiously raised his gaze to John.

“She knows who Balthazar is at least,” John answered. “He told her a loose idea of what’s happening.”

“You told him not to use the hospital ruse after, after…she met him.”

“Yeah, he already knew.”

“Has she—”

“No. I don’t, I don’t think we’re there yet.”

Sam and Dean gave them bewildered looks.

“What code is this?” Dean asked.

But John only sucked in a breath. “I better, er, better get back.”

“What the hell is going on?” Dean looked at Sherlock. “Something we should know about?”

Sam shook his head and dragged his hand down his face.

“Dean. Don’t make him say it.”

“What? Something he told you while you were gettin’ cozy on the floor?”

But Dean furrowed his brow and looked between Sam and Sherlock. He outstretched his hands and shrugged.

“What am I missing?”

“That guy was her husband,” Sam replied.

“Yeah, a grade-A douchebag at that. So what?”

“Dean. He was her  _ husband _ .”

In your dream state, you hopped onto the barstool and beamed at Balthazar. He agreed to relinquish the bar back to its rightful bartender (not that she ever remembered him) and meet you as a lowly patron. 

“I just hate for you to run this place out of business.” You smiled at him.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “But if the drinks are terrible, I’m not above hopping back there.”

“I count on it.”

But now, as you adjusted in your seat and gathered the attention of the bartender, Balthazar could only stare at you with wide eyes. You gave him a smirk and examined the cocktail menu.

“I feel like changing it up today,” you chirped. Nodding to the bartender, you started your order. “I’ll take a—”

“Water,” he finished for you. “She’ll have water.”

“I don’t want to change that much.”

“Make it sparkling.” He beamed at her.

The bartender rolled her eyes and dispensed a club soda for you. She slid it across the bar and left to draw the attention of higher paying customers.

“What the hell was that about?” You glared at Balthazar.

“I can’t get drunk.” His voice jumped half an octave. “So neither should you. Unless you plan to complete a bar crawl with me across every establishment within a hundred-mile radius.”

“I thought you did that on your own so were at least a little tipsy by the time you got here?” You pointed to his scotch. “That’s got to be, what? Your fiftieth drink of the evening?”

As you reached for his glass, Balthazar swiped it from the bar and downed it in a single gulp.

“Do we, do we even need alcohol to...bond? Or whatever you humans do.” 

“What is wrong with you today?”

“We, we can’t drink. Not alcohol at least.”

“But you just—”

“God wants you to stay sober.” He pointed a finger at you.

“Alright, alright.” You took a sip of your disappointingly non-alcoholic beverage. “I take it back. I don’t even want to know what daddy issues you’re dealing with today.”

“And wouldn’t that be something,” he tittered. “Daddy issues.”

You slammed the glass to the counter and raised your eyebrows.

“Have you talked to your father? Is that what’s got you all riled up?”

“Now that’s a joke. One that cuts deep. No, I simply had a near-death experience and now I’m rethinking my priorities.”

“And hypocrisy is one of them?”

Balthazar grimaced at you. “I’m here to enforce the word of the Lord. On you...humans and whatnot.”

“Why? Why is it so important to angelkind that we don’t drink alcohol?” 

But he only stared at you.

“Why…” You gulped. “Why is it so important to you that I don't drink, Balthazar?”

“I really should just...hop back there.”

Hand cramping as you tightened your grip around your glass, you gritted your teeth and stared at the bubbles mockingly swimming in your water.

“No.” You closed your eyes. “I, this can’t be happening.”

“I could be wrong. False-positive?”

“I didn’t pick you up at the drugstore, Balthazar! You’re a...you can see it, can’t you?”

“Size of a, er, vanilla bean seed.”

“Oh my God.”

“Do you want to know if it’s a—”

“I don’t want to know anything else about it!”

You threw some cash to the bar and rushed outside. Hands on your knees, you buckled over and gasped for air. You were used to the feeling, after all.

Balthazar grimaced at you and rubbed his palms together.

“What can I do?”

“Haven’t you done enough?” You glared at him.

“Hey!” He threw up his hands. “I’m just the messenger. I had nothing to do with this. And if I had, well, you wouldn’t be this disappointed.”

“Balthazar.”

“Right, sorry.”

But after a few deep breaths, you stood upright and shook your head.

“I have to go home.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do anything.”

“I need to be with my husband. I’ll, I’ll see you later or pray to you or something. I have to go. Rethink my diet or something...”

Your eyes flew open with a gasp. You bolted upright with your palm over your chest. Glancing at your abdomen for a moment, your eyes flickered to Balthazar.

But he only shook his head.

Answering your unasked question.

The next morning, the breakfast table was completely silent barring the occasional clink of silverware or sip of coffee. 

You slammed your fork to the table and looked around the room as all eyes redirected to you in an instant. 

“This is just weird,” you said.

“I told you to eat in your room,” Balthazar groaned from a chair slightly behind you. 

If he was going to bother eating, it certainly wouldn’t be the Winchesters’ cooking. 

“You mean the dungeon? The atmosphere is just charming.” You picked at your eggs. “Although this might be worse.”

Sam cleared his throat and stared at his plate. But you drew in a breath and pointed to him with your fork. 

“Now you, you two look like hunters.” 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Dean grunted. 

But he jerked his head back as Sam stamped on his foot under the table. 

“What was I supposed to say?” Dean whined.

“The girls I work...around are all into pop culture.” You shook your head. “You might actually be useful.”

Ignoring the paling of their faces, you narrowed your eyes at Sherlock and John.

“But you two, I don’t know what you are.” 

You raised your eyebrows at John. 

“Other than human.”

“Debatable,” Dean grumbled, inciting his brother to crush his toes once again. 

“Hey! I got shot yesterday. So could you ease up?”

You looked from Balthazar to Sherlock. “That one was injured too...could you?”

“No!” Dean jabbed his fork in the angel’s direction. “He can do whatever he wants to Detective Douchebag. But he’s not coming anywhere near me.”

“He’s the most trustworthy angel in all of heaven. Your loss, moron.” You whipped your head around to frown at Balthazar. “Just what do they think you’re doing exactly?”

“I defected.”

“Hilarious.”

“No, that’s the truth. You helped me...nevermind. We’ll get there soon.”

“And I’ll figure out whatever happened to my vanilla bean seed?”

Sherlock choked on his coffee. He smacked his chest with his fist in a feeble attempt to clear his airway. Even when the coffee was gone, it wasn’t enough.

“Vanilla bean?” Dean frowned at you. But his eyes followed yours as they flickered to your stomach. “Right, because you’re...just glowing.”

“Dean!” Sam glared at him. 

“Well, I don’t know what to say! We’ve never been around a not-pregnant pregnant woman before!”

“I apologize on behalf of my idiot brother.” Sam raised his eyebrows at you. “But congratulations?”

“Sam!” John barked. 

“Right.” Sam continued to stare at his plate and pick at his eggs. 

Stare at his plate and pick at his eggs. Stare at his plate and pick at his eggs.

“You chose some really weird humans to work for you,” you muttered.

“Now that’s just—” Dean started.

“An exquisite observation,” Balthazar finished. “Truly, I don’t know what I was thinking hiring you lot.”

“Yeah?” Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s our paycheck?”

“Hey, you’re right.” Dean furrowed his brow. He slammed his fist to the table, rattling the already overly bothered dishes. “I say we unionize.”

John dragged his hand down his face. “We have been in America for far too long.”

“Says the man who asked if I ‘ganked’ Castiel,” Sherlock groaned.

“It was a legitimate question!”

“John, if you do not see the problem with that sentence, I should just leave you here.”

“Good!” Dean pointed his knife at Sherlock. “We’ll take much better care of him than you do, you selfish prick.”

“Yeah, Sherlock.” John crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, an action the detective still could not do. “I could gank some monsters with the Winchesters and I might just get around to ganking Jim Moriarty if you don’t gank him first.”

Sherlock slammed his palms to the table and shot daggers at the doctor with his eyes.

“I will murder you.”

“Well at least I’d actually be dead and I wouldn’t pop back into your life after two years expecting everything to be just fiiiiiine. With an atrocious fake mustache no less!”

“How many times do I have to apologize for that? It was funny!”

“Are you two brothers too?” you asked.

“Yes!” they replied.

“I just love a good sibling rivalry.” Balthazar crossed his arms and beamed at the table.

Yes, you were starting to like this bizarre, dysfunctional family too.

Maybe you’d fit in one day.

With or without your vanilla bean.


	21. Heaven's Finest

Lounging on the throne of Hell, Jim stared at the ceiling and twirled his hand. 

“You’re telling me...you have no new information.”

He contorted his body across the useless furniture. No matter what, he couldn’t quite find a position that suited him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the demon whimpered. “But the King—”

“Would appreciate if you would GET THE HELL OFF MY THRONE.”

The demon started scampering away. But Crowley yanked him by the back of his collar. 

“I didn’t, I promise I didn’t tell him anything,” the demon pleaded.

“Go stab yourself.” Crowley flung him from his grasp. 

Jim sat at the edge of the throne and leaned over. 

“My, someone is territorial.”

“I can’t wait for you to get the hell out of Hell.” Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“That makes two of us.” Jim rose to his feet and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “The only reason I agreed to your terms was so I never have to return to this pit.”

“You won’t find him. I locked him away. Saving him for a special occasion.” Crowley raised his eyebrows. 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“It’s also for your protection. You wouldn’t last five seconds.”

“So they just let anyone run Hell these days?” Rowena pouted as she strode into the throne room.

Crowley whipped his head around and furrowed his brow. 

“What are you doing here?” he and Jim asked in unison. 

They stared at each other with wide eyes. “You know...?”

“Why, Fergus,” Rowena purred. “James and I go way back.”

She strode over to Jim. Licking her lips, Rowena traced a finger down his chest as Jim gulped. 

“Takes more than an amateur’s curse to break up with me.” She batted her eyelashes. 

Jim scowled at her. “I wasn’t trying to break up with you. I was trying to kill you.”

“And yet you’re just as impotent in the matter.”

“No, no.” Crowley shook his head. “You two...No, it’s not possible.”

“Just what are you doing with this sorry excuse of a man?” Rowena cocked an eyebrow. 

“Why, Crowley. You look like you’ve seen a Winchester with your bones.” Jim nodded to Rowena. “Are you slumming it with demons now? Knife kink can’t handle living tissue anymore?”

“No! We’re not involved!” Crowley shrieked. “Don’t, don’t be disgusting. And I never, NEVER needed to know what you were into in the...the bedroom.”

“What are you doing here?” Jim narrowed his eyes at Rowena. 

With a smirk, she stood behind Crowley and placed her hands on his shoulders. Leaning in next to his face, she pinched his cheek and cooed at him.

“Can’t a mother visit her only son?”

“Mother?” 

Jim’s eyes widened... 

..Right as Castiel’s broken body slammed to the center of the throne room.

Crowley looked down on the battered angel and rolled his eyes. 

“Well, there goes plan C. Onto plan D.” He glared at Jim. “D for Dumbass.”

“Crowley,” Castiel groaned. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley snapped his fingers. “Someone take care of this!”

A few demons rushed in to help Castiel to his feet. His head bobbed lazily, unable to access his full strength. 

“Did she do this to you?” Crowley narrowed his eyes. But he sucked in a breath and shook a finger. “No, don’t tell me. Spoilers.”

“She doesn’t torture unless you enjoy it a little too much yourself,” Jim hummed. 

Rowena smirked. “Then what will she do to you?”

At the bunker, Sherlock scowled as he paced the sitting room with his mobile pressed to his ear.

“Of course it was the husband! Two weeks left on the prenup. Are you really this daft?” He paused. “No, we already know the answer to that.”

Sam’s eyes flickered to John. But the doctor just shrugged in reply. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and jerked his head back. 

“A type of snake venom to mimic an allergic reaction! If Scotland Yard could combine its collective five brain cells you might actually—”

“Sherlock.” John raised his eyebrows.

“What?” the detective snipped. “It’s not my fault the brain matter of the police force is more useful sitting in fluid in a children’s museum than...YES, I AM STILL HERE, JERRY!”

“Not even close.” John dragged his hand down his face. 

“The moment I go on holiday, it’s like you don’t know how to function. Do I need to send Mrs. Hudson to ensure you feed and water yourselves properly?”

Sam started chuckling to himself as he leaned back in his seat. Shaking his head, John clicked his tongue and stared into the distance. 

“NO, I AM NOT POSSESSED!” Sherlock bellowed. “It was, this was her idea. She’s the one who wanted to leave the country, wanted to...No! She is not my girlfriend!”

Sherlock spun around and scowled at John. 

“Well, good luck finding the accomplice,” Sherlock snapped. He sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes. “Yes, there’s a partner.”

He ended the call.

Sherlock tossed the mobile to the table and took a seat next to John. He ruffled his hair and glanced down. 

With a smirk, Sam cleared his throat. 

“So this is what you do? You—”

“Verbally abuse the entire police force all day?” John raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I wouldn’t have to if they—”

But he rolled his eyes when his mobile started vibrating. Snatching it from the table, he growled into the receiver. 

“Yes, we will be there. You can stop calling.”

He hung up and threw the phone across the room. 

Mouth hanging open, John pointed from Sherlock to the rejected device. 

“That wasn’t Lestrade,” the doctor deduced.

“No, of course it wasn’t Lestrade.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” John glared at him. “You talk to your own mum like that?”

“She already knows we’re going to be there at Christmas! It’s Mycroft who’s a flight risk this year.”

“You are a terror.” John hung his head back and stared at the ceiling. 

Sam returned from the kitchen with three beers. He passed one to John and snickered. 

“Nah, dude just needs to get some.”

John nearly sprayed his gulp of beer across the table. Sherlock jolted his gaze forward and wrinkled his nose. 

“I’m bored.”

He stomped to his room, tiring of the bed that was (oddly enough) far too big for him.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “If by bored you mean sexually frustrated.”

“For God’s sake.” John dragged his hand down his face. “She better get her memories back soon.”

After a chuckle, he nodded to the third beer. 

“He was never going to drink that.”

“‘Course not.” Sam raised his beer. “That one’s for you. You’ve been working overtime.”

With a smirk, John took a sip and gestured to Sam with the bottle. 

“You’re not bad, Winchester.”

“Oh, no. You’re just bad enough.”

But Sam slammed his bottle to the table at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“SAMMY!”

John started to get up. But Sam held up a finger.

“I got this.”

In the dungeon, your hair clung to your face as sweat rolled down your temples. You backed yourself against the wall and shook your head.

“I can’t. I can’t tell him. Balthazar, please. Don’t make me.”

“I never said you had to.” 

He took a step forward. But you scrambled away from him.

“But I do, don’t I?” you hiccuped. “I tell him at some point. I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“How big is he?”

“He’s a monster. He’ll destroy me.”

“No, not your...husband,” Balthazar gulped. “Your, you know.”

“He?” Your eyes blew wide open.

“Shit. I never told you.”

“A gummy bear. You called it, you called him a gummy bear.”

“We’re almost there,” Balthazar said. “Just, just come here and I’ll—”

“NO!” 

Terror written across his face, Sam looked at Dean. But Dean gestured to you, mirroring the panic in his brother’s eyes.

“I don’t know what to do. She won’t let him touch her and we don’t want to force her. Can you just, um, do your puppy dog eye thing or something? She needs to sleep.”

Seeing the open door, you darted over. But you only met a wall of Winchester as Sam put his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” He looked into your eyes.

God, he’d never seen you so scared. But this certainly explained so much about you.

“You’re not going to let me out of here,” you whimpered.

“No, of course we are. We just, we just need to do this first.”

“How do I even know if any of this is even real?!”

“I know how it feels. Trust me. But you gotta—”

You wriggled from his grasp and backed right into Balthazar’s chest. He tapped your forehead and caught you before you hit the floor. 

“How the hell are we going to get her to drink that stuff?” Dean gestured to the mixture sitting on the stool next to you.

“I don’t know.” Balthazar rubbed his palms together. “But you’ll figure it out.”

He started walking to the door. But Dean held out his palm and blocked the exit; not that it would make a difference.

“Whoa, whoa. Just where are you going?”

“I’m afraid this is where I get off.”

“What?” Sam scowled at him. “You can’t just...we need you to, she needs you! You’re the only one she remembers.”

“Yes, which is why I need to leave.”

Dean slammed Balthazar to the dungeon wall. With an angel blade pressed to his abdomen, he leaned in and growled.

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothing. I did nothing to her.” Balthazar locked eyes with him. “We simply had, call them creative differences.”

He shoved Dean from him and adjusted the lapels of his jacket. 

“I expected her hostility when she saw me. But I thought it would be because she  _ did _ remember me not because she didn’t. You have everything you need. John has the rest of the mixture. Goodbye.”

And, as quickly as he came, your angel was gone.

In your dream state, you hopped on the barstool and grinned at Balthazar.

“My, you and the fig are glowing today.” He smirked.

“Fig? Have we already…” You glanced down shook your head, barely suppressing your grin.

But your moment of joy quickly faded as you looked at him with fearful eyes.

“He’s going to find out. I know that I’m...changing.”

“He should be overjoyed that your DNA even bothered to mingle with his,” Balthazar groaned as he took a sip of his drink.

“No, it’s fine. You’re right. He’ll be happy. They get possessive over their children. Like an extension of themselves.”

Your eyes darted to the bartender as she passed you a club soda. After a nod, you turned to Balthazar and shook his forearm.

“But you! You have good news!”

“I, um, what?”

“I saw it on your face when I walked in. And it wasn’t about the fig.”

Balthazar released a sad chuckle as he stared at his drink. But, like you, he was an expert at playing the part. He recomposed his expression and grinned at you.

“I have an out.”

“You what? Balthazar, this is...this is everything. Tell me everything!” 

He straightened his posture and turned to you.

“My brother, he showed us a new way.”

“One of your brothers defected from the flock?”

“With two idiots nonetheless. He died, Dad brought him back, and now we’re starting a war.”

“Balthazar...that doesn’t sound like good news at all. That sounds terrifying.”

“There you are getting ahead of me.” He raised his eyebrows. “They’ve sent me to retrieve a weapon.”

“You’re supposed to be scouting a place right now?”

“Already did. It’s an easy job. And once I do I can access the armory, steal what they’ve got stashed away up there, and make a break for it.”

“Balthazar, that’s brilliant.”

“You don’t need to affirm me. I already know.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. Tapping your fingers along the bar, you cocked an eyebrow at him.

“What did they send you to find?”

“Azrael’s notebook.”

“The Angel of Death?”

“You know my family tree. I’m flattered” He smirked. “Azrael came to Earth centuries ago and never returned. Presumed dead, ironically. But his notebook is still here. It was only meant to record names as humans were born and died…”

“But in the wrong hands, you could slaughter the whole world with the flick of your wrist.”

“Precisely.” Balthazar took a sip of his drink.

“Balthazar, you can’t take that back to Heaven.”

“Oh, of course not!” he scoffed. “It’s quite safely in the hands of an immortal man who merely wants it as a collector’s item.”

“And I’m assuming he has other items of interest?”

Balthazar looked at you with somber eyes. You were far too smart to be trapped in your life. But he swallowed and plastered on a grin; knowing full well you could see through it.

“The Staff of Moses for one. But no, they don’t get that either.” He shook his head. “No, I’m thinking I ought to make a valiant attempt to retrieve the Wings of Icarus. But, even with all my wonder, I only made it out with a feather.”

“And that’s enough to get you access to the armory?”

“Well, if they want me to get the rest, I should have more firepower.”

He raised his eyebrows as you shook your head and chuckled. 

“When do we leave?” you asked.

“We?”

“Yes, I’m not letting you fuck this up. This is your chance to get out.”

“No, you’re not coming with—”

“I’m a hunter, Balthazar. I know my way around the supernatural.”

“But, but…” He stared at your...fig.

“We’ll be fine!” you laughed. “We have Heaven’s finest watching over us. I assume there’s warding? I can get through that.”

Balthazar sucked in a breath. He knew you would interfere with this job whether he permitted you or not. So it would be safer if he allowed you to come along than if you tried to work half the job by yourself.

“One condition.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Yes?”

“We get you out next.”

“What?”

Balthazar’s eyes widened as your entire expression changed. Heart thumping in your chest, your grip tightened around your glass as you shot daggers at him with your eyes.

“I’m not running away with you,” you growled.

“I, I never asked you to—”

“Are you trying to play human? Think you can just raise a baby with me because we’re able to laugh over drinks without killing each other?”

“Please, you misunderstood—”

“No.” You slammed your elbow to the table and jabbed a finger in his direction. “You misspoke. You meant to say that you were happy to receive my help and that after this job is complete, after you are free, we will go our separate ways.”

“What?”

“I am FINE where I am, do you hear me? I will not let anyone come between me and my family. He...they’re all I have.”

“And who does that make me?”

“You’re a rebellious angel who despises humans, Balthazar. You know exactly what you are.”


	22. Robbed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr be roasting me asking if I'll ever let her be happy so [here's the answer.](https://melanoms.tumblr.com/post/630809158651887617/is-eve-ever-going-to-be-happy-i-love-what)

You and Balthazar clinked your glasses after returning from Luther Shrike’s home. It was easy for you to pinpoint the man’s grief and exploit that while Balthazar scoured his collections.

But the angel was too impatient to be burdened by stealth. And, like you and Sebastian experienced years later, he caught the attention of Shrike after yanking the Staff of Moses from its wall mount.

Regardless of Shrike’s ability to learn how to secure his sacred grounds, Balthazar patted the pocket of his jacket and smirked at you.

“All this trouble for a single feather.”

“You are such an asshole.”

“Soon I’m going to forget my real name.”

“Same,” you groaned.

Eyes widening, Balthazar set down his glass and cleared his throat.

“So, what you said earlier…”

“I’m so sorry.” You shook your head and looked into his eyes. “That was utterly uncalled for. I’m just...sensitive it seems. Better I learn with you than…”

You bit your lip and glanced down. 

Balthazar adjusted in his seat. Furrowing his brow, he tentatively rested his hand on your knee. But when you didn’t retract from his touch and, instead, made eye contact, the slighted smile crept across his lips.

“Next week?” he asked.

“If you’re not in battle.”

“Oh no, Agent. This is my retirement party.”

But when Balthazar returned the next week, you were not inhabiting your usual barstool. He opened his mouth and raised his eyebrows at the bartender. But she shook her head and answered his unasked question.

“Not yet.”

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Three weeks of not yet and the bartender shrugged at the angel.

“I think you’ve been dumped.” 

“We’re not—”

She slid a glass across the table. “On the house.”

Already having a terrible day after returning a child’s soul on the demands of Castiel’s masters, Balthazar strutted out of the bar and closed his eyes. He reached out to one of Clint’s employees—posing as his brother; Lucy was always the sweet talker—and received consent to possess him.

It was only by cautiously making his way to your room that he saw you hooked to a variety of machines and completely unconscious. As Balthazar tentatively approached you, another man tapped his shoulder and nodded to him.

“Boss send you to get rid of her?”

“Get rid of? Wha—”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” 

He gingerly approached your bedside and placed his palm to your forehead, accessing your memories.

The night of your robbery, you jolted awake to blood-stained sheets and Clint muttering into his phone.

“I don’t care which one. Get a doctor here now. But know that if they cannot fix this situation, I will personally see to it that their medical license is revoked.”

“Clint. What, what’s happen…” Your eyes widened as a sharp pain pinched your insides.

“You were stupid to keep this from me.”

“I just, I had to be sure…”

Balthazar yanked his hand from you. Fortunately for him, he missed the part where you begged the doctor to revoke your parenting privileges. Fortunately for Clint, he also missed what happened in the weeks to follow.

You said you were fine. After your tousle with Shrike you said you were fine. You said you were fine. And yet, here you were...very much not fine.

Devoid of all possible seeds and fruits.

After a hard swallow, Balthazar started stumbling backward; saved only by the wall pressing against his back. As you would say…

He fucked up. He really fucked this up.

And he couldn’t, he couldn’t fix you.

Well, he could. By all practical standards, his equipment was working.

What he couldn’t do was trust himself to fix you...to fix you like you would want.

However, Balthazar certainly wasn’t going to let these apes handle you. So he did the only thing he could. He brought you into more, dare he say, capable hands.

Which is exactly how the Winchesters found you, broken, beaten, and barely conscious on their front doorstep.

In the War Room of the bunker, Dean, Sam, Sherlock, and John avoided all eye contact as they strategized what to do next.

“She’s terrified,” Sam said.

“But also ready to murder anyone who walked in there.” Dean grimaced.

John dragged his hand down his face and shook his head. “What hasn’t worked?”

“Well,” Sam cleared his throat. “We tried saying that Balthazar was gone for a moment and that if she drank that stuff and fell asleep he’d be back.”

“Which worked...the one time.” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Now she at least knows who we are. But then she figured out that he’s, um, not coming back.”

“So we told her to just drink the goo and we’d tell her where he was.”

“Which—”

“She didn’t believe,” Sherlock finished.

“Right.” Sam rolled his eyes. “So we tried to tell her that she needed to stay the course of treatment and then she’d be caught up to speed and it would help with her confusion.”

Dean rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t work.”

“So now…” Sam shrugged.

“Christ.” John glanced upward and shook his head. “It’s difficult enough getting her to sleep as is. But now? With all this?”

“I could...I could knock her out?” Dean gulped.

“After force-feeding her?” Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Hey! I don’t want to put her through anything else. But she’s gotta get her memories back somehow. Maybe when she remembers to trust us again then—”

“Dean. She never trusted us. That’s why we never knew about…” Sam tore his gaze from his brother and stared at the floor.

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a breath. 

“There is one angle you haven’t considered.”

“Enlighten us.” Dean rolled his eyes.

But Sherlock could only stare at John with wide eyes. John furrowed his brow, trying to decipher the detective’s expression. After a pained breath, he shook his head.

“No, no, no. You can’t possibly—”

“How else will we get her to willingly follow through? At least long enough to...to get her back.”

“Sherlock, if she remembers this too…”

“I can only do this once. So we’re going to have to give her all of it.”

“But Balthazar—”

“Abandoned her. If she knows the Winchesters, she’s at least away from, from him in her timeline. So the impact should be less severe.”

John closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. He looked at Sherlock and shook his head.

“You better be bloody right.”

He started to lead Sherlock to the kitchen. But Dean grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Just what messed up plan are you two going to play out? Because—”

But John shoved Dean’s hand from his shoulder and glared at him.

“Back off, Winchester.”

“No! I’m not going to let you two just run in there and—”

“Stand down, soldier.” John lowered his gaze and clenched his jaw. “That’s an order.”

Stunned, Dean swallowed and took a step back. He held up his hands and looked to the side.

“Fine. But if you fuck this up even more—”

“Dean.” Sam put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Four minutes later, Sherlock exited the dungeon. Devoid of all color, the detective gritted his teeth and bore his eyes into the floor.

“It’s done.”

He strode to his room, yanking off his coat in the process.

Castiel slowly opened his eyes to take in the sight of Bobby Singer’s home. Furrowing his brow, he slowly walked through the empty sitting room and glanced into the kitchen.

“Dean?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Balthazar replied from behind him. 

He crossed his arms and glared at Castiel.

Castiel spun around and looked at his dead brother with wide eyes.

“We’re in my mind,” Castiel observed.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to meet you in the real world. You could kill me.”

“Has her memory been restored?”

“Nearly. Left it in the hands of your precious Winchesters. They tend to finish the job.”

“I will not apologize for what I’ve done.”

“I don’t expect you to. But I want you to know that your strategy won’t work. She’ll never take the Mark. Especially not if it means—”

“You’ve been following her.”

“What? No—”

“Balthazar, you were never a good liar. I don’t know what she saw in you.”

Castiel took a step forward and narrowed his eyes.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who killed the criminal.”

“Yes, I was the one who killed your wardrobe stylist.”

Castiel paced circles around his brother.

“You always pretended to be so above the humans. But look at you now.”

“That’s rich coming from the Winchester’s pet angel. Where’s your leash, Castiel?”

“You would have done it, wouldn’t you? Raised her child with her in some dystopian fantasy?”

“At least he would have acted like an infant because he was one. Unlike yours.”

“Would he have lived? If you hadn’t been so stupidly selfish to steal Heaven’s weapons?”

“Hold. Your. Tongue.”

Castiel smirked.

“Naomi didn’t order anyone to kill Jim Moriarty. Not that they weren’t relieved. But it was you, wasn’t it? Protecting your pet.”

“I won’t let her be chained to another monster.”

“Don’t pretend you act out of valor, Balthazar. You left her then and you left her now. Preferring my, what do you call them? Masters clean up your messes.” 

Castiel leaned in and raised his eyebrows. 

“She can smell brokenness like you could see her child. Perhaps the reason she stuck around you was because she knew exactly the dysfunctional coward you always were. Easier to take advantage when necessary.”

“And she knew exactly the self-righteous, misguided prick you always were. Easier to not trust a single thing from that foul mouth of yours.”

“How are you even alive?”

“I don’t know, Castiel. How are you?”

Castiel’s eyes flew open. He yanked on the nearest demon’s shirt and growled into her ear. 

“Get me, Crowley.”

Two days passed and you were still asleep. Sam and Dean traded shifts watching you in the infirmary, hoping a familiar face and open space would ease your mind when you woke.

But as Dean stared at his open browser tab, John knocked on the library doorway and raised his eyebrows. 

“I think someone is trying to break in.”

“You think?”

“Someone is trying to break in.”

Gun in hand, Dean marched to the front door. He muttered to himself the entire way there. But he furrowed his brow and disarmed when he opened it to see a small cage.

With a hamster inside.

He plucked the note from the top and cocked an eyebrow.

“A pet for my pet, m'eudail. Sorry for the trouble.”

Carrying the cage inside, Dean walked into the infirmary and tossed it on the end table next to Sam.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean gestured to the hamster, handing Sam the note.

“M'eudail? Isn’t that—”

“Crowley’s pet name for her. What is this? Some inside thing she’s got with the King of Hell?”

“Oh, shit,” John said from the doorway.

He dragged his hand down his face and shook his head. 

“Don’t let Sherlock see that.”

“Why?” Dean scowled.

John crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Ever had an adversary?”

“Death, Abbadon, Dick, alcoholism—”

“A clever adversary?”

“My insomnia?”

“Just don’t let him see that. He already hates himself enough right now.”

The Winchesters furrowed their brows as John strutted to his room. 

What were they supposed to do with your hamster?

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock hurdled a kitchen knife at the wall. It landed firmly in the precise spot he was aiming for. Practice with you was paying off, after all.

With a smirk, he grabbed a second knife. But when he threw that one, his eyes widened as it landed in the middle of Balthazar’s chest.

“Ow.” Balthazar yanked out the knife and tossed it on the bed. “You’re going to stab someone.”

“Why did you leave?” Sherlock asked.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Her…”

“Fig.”

“Fig?”

“Fig.”

“It was shortly after she robbed Shrike that she met the Winchesters,” Sherlock said. “That he...nearly killed her.”

Balthazar swallowed and glanced at the floor. But Sherlock narrowed his eyes and continued.

“They both claimed it was because she was trying to escape—”

“She tried to leave?” Balthazar snapped his gaze to Sherlock.

“Yes. She helped a few of their victims escape. But I know she was simultaneously looking for an escape route for herself.”

“And then he found out?”

“And then she lost her...fig.”

“And he punished her. For it all.”

“Yet somehow, she miraculously found the Winchesters. While a mere breath away from death itself.”

Sherlock could only hold his breath as he stared at the angel. After a moment of pained silence, he sucked in a inhale and narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“What would you do to keep her safe?” Balthazar took a step forward.

“She doesn’t want me to keep her safe.”

“Have you killed anyone before?”

“Yes.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“What?” Sherlock jerked his head back.

“Are you a killer, Sherlock Holmes? Or just an executioner?” 

“Who do I need to kill?”

“It’s not a question of who you need to kill. It’s who you are. The Mark requires a murderer, not a survivalist.”

“That’s what this is all about? Shoving the Mark of Cain on Heaven or Hell’s preferred recipient?”

Balthazar crossed his arms. He adjusted his footing and raised his eyebrows.

“How much do you know about The Beginning, Mr. Holmes? The real beginning. Before Genesis?”


	23. How I've Missed You

Without opening your eyes, your consciousness achingly returned from your dream state. Your mind felt like it was getting dragged by a bullet train. But after a few intentionally paced breaths, you cleared your throat and readjusted on the bed with a groan.

Sam’s gaze snapped upward.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured. “Take it easy.”

Your body forced you back to the bed anyway. Vision regaining focus, you narrowed your eyes at him and swallowed.

“Sam.”

“Yeah.” He smirked. “How do you feel?”

“Like hammered shit. Judging by your face, I look it too.”

“No, you, you look great. You always look great.”

Rolling your eyes, you tried to peel yourself from the bed again. But, elbow trembling as you gripped the edge of the mattress, you collapsed backward.

“Ow.”

“Yeah, you’re probably going to be out for a few days. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

“I’m so sick of that question.”

“Please.”

You drew in a breath and stared at the ceiling. 

“Sherlock came in and said that Clint ordered me to drink the rest of that nasty shit.”

“But from your dream?”

“Yeah. That, that was the last thing I dreamt.”

“Oh.” He pursed his lips and glanced down.

After a moment of silence, you closed your eyes and bit your lip.

“So you guys know…”

“Um, yeah.”

“Did Dean go on a murder spree?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I saw the Mark—No, how do you feel? What do you need?”

“I am so hungry.”

“On it.”

Sam popped to his feet. When he was in the doorway, you called out to him.

“Oh, and Sam?”

“Yeah, I’ll get John too.”

“No, I just, I just wanted you to know that I love you.”

The corner of his lip upturned in the slightest grin. “Yeah, love you too.”

In the bunker library, Dean plopped a baby carrot, tomato slice, and sliver of celery in the hamster’s cage. 

“Son of a bitch!” he yelped. 

John looked up from Dean’s laptop. “Did it bite you?”

“YES! Drew blood even. I think...I think it liked it.”

“They're mocking us.” John rolled his eyes. “That thing is nasty.”

“It doesn’t like anything that I try to feed it.”

Dean lowered himself to glare at your pet.

“If you go on a hunger strike, that’s your own damn fault. But she’s gonna be pissed to find out Crowley gave her a hamster who was stupid enough to starve to death.”

The rodent pounced to the edge of the cage and started hissing. Scowling, Dean bolted upright and shook his head.

“Maybe it’s possessed,” John mused.

“Can’t be. Bunker’s warded. We couldn’t have brought it in if it was a demon.”

“Didn’t say it was a demon.”

Dean leaned in and peered at the hamster.

“Cas? Is that you?”

But the hamster only pooped on the tomato slice and strutted to its wheel.

Dean dragged his hand down his face and groaned just as Sam rushed into the library. 

“She, she’s awake.”

“And?” John and Dean whipped their heads around.

“She remembers. Everything.”

Dean started marching to the door. But Sam put his hand on his shoulder and shook his head. 

“She needs something to eat. We should, y’know.”

Sucking in a breath, Dean glanced at John. The doctor crossed his arms and gave him a nod. Afterwhich, the Winchesters left the bunker in search of something for you to eat.

John was in the infirmary in 17 seconds. Lifting your head, he helped you sip some water. When you were finished, you rested your head back and groaned.

“I’m fine.”

“Mhmm.”

His fingers hovered over your wrist. Furrowing your brow, you studied his hesitation before your eyes flickered back to his face.

“May I?” he asked.

“Um, yes.”

“At any point, you let me know and I can stop.”

John placed two fingers to your wrist to check your pulse. After a minute, he withdrew a small torch and hovered his hand over your face.

“May I?”

“Yeah...John, I told you I’m fine.”

But he raised your eyelid with his thumb and examined your pupillary response.

“Look to the left. Left and down. Left and up.”

You followed his instructions for both eyes. As your gaze traced his index finger, you raised your eyebrows.

“I screwed everything up, didn’t I?”

“What?” He set his hand and the light down.

“I just, I caused a lot of trouble.”

“You didn’t do anything. This was entirely Castiel’s fault.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have worried you and—”

“Why do you always assume you’re to blame?”

“What?”

“You always do that. Apologize for things that aren’t your fault or are out of your control. Or assume that you did something wrong. That you, as you say, fucked up.”

“I, I don’t know. I didn’t realize…”

John rifled through the available medical supplies. Withdrawing a stethoscope that surely hadn’t been used in this century, he held the chest piece over your chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but you answered for him.

“Yes, you may.”

He raised his eyebrows at the quality of the medical device. They simply didn’t make them like this anymore.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructed.

After John listened to your lungs, he wrapped the stethoscope around his neck and nodded to you. 

“I’ll check your backside when you can actually sit up.”

“Alright.”

John swallowed and glanced to the side. He covered his mouth with his hand and drew in a breath. Shaking his head, he put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did you name him?”

“Who?”

John cleared his throat and waved his hand through the air. “Never-nevermind. Do you need me to get—”

“Please.”

At Sherlock’s room, John knocked on the doorway and took a step in.

“She, er, she’s awake.”

But Sherlock continued to lay on the mattress and stare at the ceiling. He tapped his fingers along his stomach as John narrowed his eyes.

“She remembers everything.”

“Hm.”

“Are you serious right now? You’re just going to—”

“You’ve completed your job.” Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raised his eyebrows. “I will be there in a moment.”

On his way to the infirmary, Sherlock passed the library. He eyed the hamster cage and smirked before making his way to you.

In the doorway, he put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to the side. You leaned your head over to offer him a small smile.

“Hello, my brilliant detective.”

Sherlock smirked and took a few steps toward you.

“You’re…” He raised his eyebrows.

“Hungry. Tired. But not mad at you.”

“Is that so?” 

Sherlock glanced down and traced his fingers over your hand. His gaze slowly drifted to your face as he ran his fingertips along your jawline and down your neck.

But he whipped his head around as Dean cleared his throat from the doorway. He held up a take away bag and looked to the side.

“Sam said, since, y’know.”

“Give me a moment with the Winchester?” You smiled at Sherlock.

He gave you a curt nod and left.

When Dean set your food down, you gestured for him to lean in. His chest tightened as you whispered in his ear.

“I need you to draw a devil’s trap around me.”

“What?” 

“Dean. Something’s happened to your warding. That’s not Sherlock.”

In his mind palace, Sherlock furrowed his brow as he strode through the hallways. A chill snaked up his spine. 

Something was...different.

“Castiel?”

But when Sherlock only received his own echo in reply, he drew in a breath and peered into an unsuspecting door. He narrowed his eyes at the darkened building.

“Balthazar?”

He turned the corner to see John peering out the window. Shaking his head, John spun around and glared at Sherlock.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He gestured to the building across the way.

Sherlock took cautious steps forward to see himself sitting across from Jeff Hope with two all-too familiar bottles of pills sitting on the table between them.

He was at the Roland Kerr Further Education College.

“No, no.” Sherlock shook his head. “This isn’t, this isn’t how I’ve arranged...”

John jabbed a finger in his direction. “You were just like Moriarty. Ready to die for the game.”

“John, there’s someone here. I’m not, this isn’t...” He started dashing around the room.

Searching, searching, searching for a clue, anything to tell him what the hell was going on. He rifled through the abandoned drawers. He surveyed the window panes. He scrutinized the vision of himself, scowling at his own smug expression.

Sherlock latched his palms to John’s shoulders and furiously shook him.

“John! I need you to help me.”

John smirked and shook his head. “Of course, it’s what I always do. One of the many things I am exceptionally good at.”

He withdrew his gun and aimed toward the window.

“No, John!”

But John rolled his eyes and grinned.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you git.”

The moment the gun fired, Sherlock’s eyes flew open to a flash of white light. His head darted around as he was now in the driver’s seat of a car. A car, the road, he knew this road.

Karachi.

“I knew you would find me,” Irene mused from the passenger seat.

Sherlock whipped his head around as his eyes widened.

“I’m not in control.” He released his hands from the steering wheel. “I, I’m always…”

“Good for me that you love a good challenge.” Irene examined her nails.

“This is Crowley.”

With a smirk, Irene wrapped one hand around the back of his neck. She snaked the other up his thigh and leaned in, licking a stripe behind his ear.

“Would you like to get dinner?”

“No.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why? Because you have a new fascination?”

“Because…”

Sherlock slowly met her gaze. He drew in a breath and shook his head.

“I need you to say it.” Irene pierced her eyes into his.

“Because...you’re dead.”

Sherlock stumbled forward into an abandoned warehouse. There was something vaguely familiar about the graffiti and sorrowful tarps that begged the breeze to carry them away. 

But even as he walked through, he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t clearly identify the familiar—

“Mycroft,” Sherlock breathed.

Leaning against the cement wall, Mycroft examined the back of a receipt and shook his head. Sherlock’s eyes darted to, well, himself—his younger self—slouched on his brother’s shoulder.

Scowling, Mycroft shook the evidence at him.

“I can’t even read the last one! It turns into a careless scribble! Where did you get this filthy scrap from anyway?”

After a hard swallow, Sherlock gestured to a pile of rubbish strewn across the corner. Mycroft buried his face in his (clean) hand and shook his head.

“What was it this time?”

“I was…”

“Bored?”

“Lonely.”

Mycroft snapped his gaze to his brother. Clenching his jaw, his nostrils flared as he tossed the useless paper aside and shook his head.

Sherlock crouched in front of him and bit his lip.

“I need your help.”

“You stopped needing my help years ago.”

“Mycroft, I’ve lost control.”

“I should say so.”

“No, not…” Sherlock swallowed, looking at his heartbroken self. “Here, in my own mind. I know, I know about the supernatural. Something is wrong. I need your help.”

“Where do we begin? Victimology?” Mycroft mocked. “Well, we know from Cluedo it couldn’t have been you.”

“No, no!” 

Sherlock rose to his feet and shook out his hands. He paced around the warehouse and threw his fingers to his temples. Slamming his eyes closed, Sherlock grappled for focus. But the thoughts slipped through faster then he could gain a firm grip.

Castiel. Balthazar. Crowley. Rowena. God. The Darkness.

Who in this world was motivated to, to…

His eyes flew open.

He was in a hospital bed. Standing in front of him, you knocked out John with a clean kick to the jaw.

“JOHN!” Sherlock instinctually lurched forward. But he couldn’t move much more than a jerk of his shoulders.

You looked at your husband as you holstered your gun. But the look was, well, it wasn’t a look Sherlock had ever seen you give the psychopath. 

But instead, it was the way you looked at him...your friend.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to Clint as the deadman sneered at him.

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes. How I’ve missed you.”


	24. 'Til Death Do You Part

Sitting on the edge of your infirmary bed, you smiled at Sherlock and tilted your head to the side. John pressed the stethoscope to your back and gritted his teeth.

“Deep breath,” he grunted.

You drew in an inhale. As John lifted the chest piece to place it to your other lung, you outstretched your hand to Sherlock.

“You’ve been looking at me like I’m about to explode. Come here.”

“I lied to you.” 

“It’s kinda our thing.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “And even after I lied to you, numerous times at that, while you were mentally incapacitated—”

“Will you stop being a drama queen and come kiss me?”

You didn’t need to tell him twice.

With a smirk, Sherlock stepped forward. The moment he was across the threshold of the devil’s trap, John took your glass of holy water from the nightstand and threw it in the demon’s face.

As the liquid hissed from his skin, Sherlock snarled and shook out his face. 

John helped you limp outside the devil’s trap and Sam rushed in with a wheelchair. Plopping yourself down with a gasp, you glared at the demon.

He took a step forward. But when he couldn’t continue his advances to you, he looked up...then down...then at you.

“UV paint, jackass.” Dean entered the infirmary and crossed his arms.

The demon clicked his tongue and shook a finger.

“Smart, much smarter than I anticipated from any of you.” He narrowed his eyes at you. “What gave it away? I was on my best behavior.”

“Sebastian?”

“Do you honestly not recognize me?” His eyes flashed black before returning to Sherlock’s normal color.

“Crowley sent you.” Sam narrowed his eyes.

“Sammy gets a big cookie with lunch.”

“Hey!” Dean barked and jabbed a finger in his direction.

“No one gets to call him Sammy,” the demon finished with him. He shrugged with a grin. “You all are so easy to rile up. How I’ve missed this.”

He looked at you and softened his expression. It almost could have been Sherlock looking at you. Almost.

“And how I’ve missed you. Shame I never got that kiss.”

“No,” you breathed.

John started muttering the exorcism. But a sentence in, Clint unbuttoned the top buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and tapped his chest. Sam and Dean’s eyes widened at the familiar scar.

“I’m no amateur, Doctor Watson. The binding ritual was simple enough. If my wife loves this body so dearly, I might as well keep it.”

John spun around and pointed at you and Dean.

“Get them out of here,” he ordered Sam. “NOW.”

Sam started wheeling you out. But Dean growled and marched toward your demonic husband.

“No, no, no,” Dean spat.

John blocked his access and glared at him.

“Get out, Winchester.”

“My dad is the only John who gets to make orders around here.” 

Dean shoved John aside. But he paused when you yelped at him.

“Dean, please!”

Nostrils flaring, he slowly turned around to see you shaking your head.

“You’ll kill them both. Dean, I am begging you. Please don’t, don’t do this.”

Grinding his teeth, Dean placed his hand over the Mark and bore his eyes into you. You drew in a breath and looked at him with pleading eyes.

“I, I need you. Please.”

“Do you really have this one wrapped around your finger too?” Clint raised his eyebrows. “When I’m done with your detective, maybe I’ll take him next.”

“GODDAMMIT!” Dean stomped his foot. 

Requiring every fiber of his composure, he took Sam’s job and wheeled you outside of the infirmary. Both of you stared at the floor as Clint called out to you.

“And they said ‘til death do us part. If only they knew how much you truly love me.”

With enchanted handcuffs, bindings, and an abundance of holy water, Sam and John successfully transferred Sherlock’s possessed body to the dungeon. Dean wheeled you to the library. But when you saw the hamster, you furrowed your brow.

“What’s this?”

“Um, a gift. From Crowley.”

He stopped you in front of the cage and you narrowed your eyes at the dark fur.

“Dean…”

“Yeah?”

“How did Sherlock get possessed?”

“We tried to get Cas from this psycho and he took a bullet for Sam, literally. Balthazar healed him up...us up...but it screwed up his ink.” Dean furrowed his brow. “But Sam gave him an amulet…”

You spun the cage around as the hamster eagerly squeaked at your presence. Examining the door, you reached out to open it. But Dean put his hand over yours and vigorously shook his head.

“You don’t want to do that. It’s evil.”

“Oh, I know, Dean. That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

You opened the door and outstretched your palm. After a few curious sniffs, the hamster hopped on your hand. 

“Dude!” Dean protested. “You’ve gotta be frickin’ kidding me.”

With a smile, you lifted the hamster and stroked its back.

“You’re a handsome one,” you cooed. 

The hamster spun around in your palm. You nestled your finger between its ears and gave it a little rub. Batting your eyelashes, you pucked your lips and shook your head.

“You’re not evil. You’re just misunderstood.”

It squeaked in agreement.

“Well, lucky for you, I understand what that’s like.”

You looked at Dean’s bewildered face and smiled.

“I think he deserves the royal treatment. Can you get a nicer home for him?”

But Dean’s lip upturned in a smirk as you mouthed the word ‘warded’ outside of the hamster’s view. He crouched to look at your pet and grinned.

“Aren’t you just the king of the castle?”

The hamster started shrieking at him and Dean jerked backward.

“Okay, okay, Your Highness. I’m on it.”

You set the hamster on your shoulder and it instantly started gnawing on your bra strap. Rolling your eyes, you drew in a breath and examined its cage.

“You’re a picky eater, aren’t you?”

It nipped you in reply.

“Ow! Don’t you get sassy with me.”

You plucked the hamster from your shoulder and narrowed your eyes at it. Scratching its back with your index finger, you waited until it melted in your palm…

...Before clamping down with a firm squeeze.

The hamster squeaked in protest but you shook your head.

“Oh, Jim. You miserable fuck.”

He bit down and drew blood in a feeble request for freedom. But you clicked your tongue and leaned in.

“Do your worst. But when we find bite marks in the warding and that amulet, you can only imagine the fun I’m going to have with you.”

Just as Dean returned with a warded box, you threw Jim inside and latched it shut.

“I’m sure Crowley will be here soon to change him back.”

“I already put up some warding that’ll keep anything else from getting in.” Dean pointed to the box and raised his eyebrows. “What should I do with Hamtaro?”

You shrugged. “Put him wherever. We’ll give him a piece of tomato eventually.”

Dean set the box on a bookshelf and patted the top.

“For an evil genius, you’re one dumb son of a bitch.”

He sat across from you and crossed his arms.

“This sucks.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer not to think too much about it.”

“Thank God.” Dean dragged his hand down his face. “Sam is always trying to get me to—”

“Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong, Dean. We both desperately need therapy. We’re just not doing that with each other.”

“Fair enough.”

“But I was serious when I said I needed your help.”

“Anything.” He leaned forward.

“Well, I’m disgusting.”

“Somone had to say it.”

“Thanks.” You rolled your eyes. “I just need some help getting a shower in and whatnot.”

His eyes blew wide open as the hamster started squeaking fervently from the bookshelf.

“I’m not asking you to get in with me!” You threw out your hand. “Just to, y’know, help me move around and such.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean groaned. “You wish I’d scrub you down.”

He sprang to his feet and started wheeling you from the library. In the hallway, he cleared his throat and shook his head.

“Not talking about it?”

“Not talking about it.”

In his mind palace, Sherlock found himself in front of the room he originally dedicated to you many years ago. He sucked in a breath as he traced his fingers over the gilded label that no longer circulated through your possible names. But instead, contained one simple word.

Love.

He had since created a new library for his growing volumes on you—with you as the head librarian. But, going back to the beginning, Sherlock placed his fingertips to the door and applied the gentlest of pressure.

“You’re a dutiful little soldier,” Clint hummed as he scoured through the notebooks and scraps of evidence. “Saw you have a bit of temper? She can be quite ruthless sometimes.”

He gestured to the bin filled with ash.

“They will exorcise you from me.”

“But will you be coming to Hell with me, Mr. Holmes? We all know you’re not on the side of the angels.”

Clint cracked open a book and raised his eyebrows. 

“She eats like a suffering teenager,” he read aloud. “Opting for anything fried over substantial nourishment.” 

He smirked at Sherlock. “She learned to live off dorm food. Had quite the knack for finding the most vulnerable college students.”

“Crowley sent you for a reason. He wouldn’t just let you crawl out of Hell to cause chaos. Not when he’s lobbying for her and James to—”

“I think she just loves broken things.”

“Then what does that make you?”

“I never pretended to be whole.” He tossed the book at Sherlock’s feet. “Or her hero. But you have quite a bit of fun with that one.”

“You’re here to eliminate me as an option to bear the Mark of Cain.”

Clint threw his head back and bellowed a haunting laugh.

“You really think the Mark would want you?”

“You’re here to take it with me as your vessel.”

“Now that is actually a decent idea.” Clint waved a finger. “I’ll be sure to let dear Crowley know if this strategy doesn’t work.”

“She never told you about any of this. The supernatural.”

“I was enough monster for her.”

“You’re not here to take the Mark. You’re here to take me from her. So she’ll be more willing to partner with anyone...but me.”

“Well, you do have some intelligence underneath all that arrogance.” Clint stepped forward and shook his head with a sinister grin. “I’m here to scar your vessel so deeply, she’ll never be able to look at you again.”

“Because if you simply killed me…”

“Someone would bring you back.”

Clint jerked backward and threw his palm to his face as it seared and steamed.

“Will you two MORONS stop with the holy water! You’re interrupting me!”

“But she figured you out.” Sherlock smirked. “She knew and now they’re finding a way to remove you from me. No matter what binding ritual you performed.”

“When I get out of this devil’s trap, the things I will make you do to her. And then, just for fun, I might take a ride inside her body. That cute little tattoo only works if the skin isn’t broken.”

With a growl, Sherlock lunged forward to tackle Clint. But his eyes flew open just as he pounced on you instead. Bodies jointed, you collapsed to the mattress in his room at 221B Baker Street.

“Easy there!” you laughed. “I just got back!”

Blood. You were covered in blood. And wearing...leather. Quite a bit of leather. Leather trousers, leather jacket, with just a bra underneath.

He remembered this night.

“I’ve still got helmet hair from that motorcycle. Since hit jobs are all about safety first, right?” You rolled your eyes and snickered. “Let me just get my ankle monitor back on and shower and then we can...or I should probably shower then put the monitor back on.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“Or leave it off,” he breathed, glancing back at you with wide eyes.

Yes, he remembered this night.

You smirked at him. “I can tell by the way you’re looking at me you want me to keep this on. Jim’s pick. But he’s got better taste than—”

“Me?” Clint scowled at you. “I had impeccable taste in your clothing.”

“You never let her have anything of her own.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “That’s why she has me bring her clothes to her. You chose everything she wore and that’s why she’s so accepting of James doing the same.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and smiled.

“Is it the blood too? You can tell me. I won’t judge.”

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open as Clint wrapped his hands around your neck from behind. But you continued to draw Sherlock closer to you as if the demon wasn’t present.

“We can both take her in here if you’d like,” Clint teased.

“I am going to kill you.”

“She was always so adorable when she threatened me. But from you, it’s just annoying.”

Sherlock was back in bed. On top of you. But you stared at him with panicked eyes and smacked his forearm. 

“Sher, Sherlock,” you gagged. “Sto-stop!”

Sherlock’s hands flew back from your throat as he stumbled backward. 

“Sherlock. What, what did I do wrong?”

Leaning against the wall, Clint crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. 

“That, this isn’t what happened.” Sherlock glared at him. “She woke up from a nightmare with you and I had to yank her hands from her throat.”

“This is how it’s going to feel. When I make you wreck her. You’re going to feel it so intimately, you’ll forget that it’s me in the driver’s seat.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“But that’s the fun!” Clint threw himself upright and held out his hands. “I’ve been prowling through the depths of your broken mind Sherlock Holmes. God only knows what she sees in you. And that is one of the things you are so deeply terrified is true.”

Clint traced the side of your face as you looked into his eyes. He leaned in and smirked, glancing at Sherlock for a moment. 

“Whether you like it or not, you are like me. And I’m going to show you just how much.”

John doused Sherlock’s mouth with holy water. After a few pained gags, the demon threw his head upward and grinned. 

“You two are just so scared to mess up this beautiful face. I admit the accent felt like a bit much at first. But now it’s growing on me.”

“John.” Sam cleared his throat. “We might, we might have to escalate this.”

“Or you could just give me what I want.” Clint shrugged Sherlock’s shoulders.

John punched him across the face. 

Clint wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “So you can’t cut yourself on these cheekbones. Now you can tell the fangirls. You’re only hurting him, you know?”

“Sherlock, if you can hear us, we’re going to get him out,” John promised.

“Oh, Johnny boy, no. For all the mental prowess the press claims, he was astonishingly easy to lock away. Can’t hear a word you’re saying. But it is fun to hear you try.”

Sam withdrew the knife and took a deep breath. 

“John.”

“No.” John held up his hand.

“I think he would agree with me.”

“The demon is a sadistic psychopath. Torture is just another Tuesday. We need something more powerful.”

“Angel boy toy won’t do it either.” Clint smirked.

“Watch him,” John ordered before dashing out of the dungeon.

Time to get the most powerful weapon in their arsenal.


	25. You've Have a Sherlock, I've Have a Gold Key

In the library, Dean grinned at you and inched your wheelchair a meter away. He hopped on a desk and readied his stance.

“Alright, I’m going for gold.”

“Hit me, Winchester.”

You opened your mouth as he tossed a skittle. But it bounced off your tooth and you jerked backward.

“Ow!”

“Son of a bitch. Let me, let me try again!”

Dean readied his stance. He narrowed his eyes. He focused his aim. And…

“DEAN!”

“I wasn’t going for your eye! I promise!”

You shook your head and laughed. “You’re no better at this than you used to be.”

“I practiced, I swear!”

“On who? Castiel or your sex doll?”

“Hey! You...you’re, you’re a sex doll.”

“Wanna try that again before I beat your ass?”

“Mhmm, yes I would.”

“Guys?” John said from the doorway. “Can I have a minute?”

Dean plopped down on the desk. Feet swaying over the edge, he popped a skittle in his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

“Detective Douchebag back yet?”

“Dean.” John glared at him. “This isn’t a bloody joke.”

“You don’t think I know that?” He downed a handful of skittles. “Its t’only thing ‘eeping me ‘rom ‘ulking out.”

John looked at you for a translation.

“He’s going to turn into a psychopathic rage monster if he doesn’t keep his cool. Repression is the Winchester way.”

“And you?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Want to talk about anything but how I’m doing.”

“Alright that, that might be good.”

With a hard swallow, John crouched in front of you. His hands hovered over your knees. But after you nodded, he placed them on you and sucked in a breath.

“I need you to talk to him,” he requested.

“What?!” Dean leaped off the desk.

“I need you to talk to him. To both of them.”

Dean yanked John by the back of his collar and spun him around.

“No way is she going anywhere near that thing.”

“Torture won’t work. And if you had a shred of forethought, you’d agree with me,” John snipped. “If we send you in there, we’re only going to have pieces of him left. So unless your good friend Castiel is around to put him back together, we’re running out of options.”

“Wait.” You narrowed your eyes. “You actually want me to talk to him? I was going to give you and Sam and fair go before I—”

“You, you want to go in there?” John asked. 

“Of course! I was ready the moment the initial shock wore off. But I assumed no one would let me...John, get me down there!”

Ignoring Dean’s protests, John wheeled you out of the library. You picked at your nails and gulped. 

“Did you hurt him?”

“Nothing substantial.”

But John rushed you to the dungeon at the sound of Sherlock’s voice ripping through the air.

“What the hell are you doing?!” John yanked Sam from Sherlock.

The blade sizzled from his thigh as Clint rolled out his neck and laughed. 

“You two look like the beginning of a terrible joke. But please, keep arguing at the detective’s expense. I can wait. Can you?”

John set you in front of the demon but safely outside the devil’s trap. Clint clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Oh, they are just desper—”

You waved a finger in his face and leaned forward. “The only thing I want out of that pretty little mouth is you smoking your dumbass out of here.”

“Why, wife. You should know better than to speak to me in such a state. Is it this body? Does he just love to submit to your verbal abuse?”

“Crowley sent you. But why?”

“To defile this pristine specimen, of course. Why won’t you play with me?” He pressed his index finger to his lips and glanced upward. “Am I supposed to say it? What is it again? The game is on?”

But his eyes widened at the smirk that slowly upturned from the corner of your mouth.

“You’re struggling, Clint. I can see it. He’s wearing you down.”

“You’ve been quite busy since I’ve left. Spending plenty of time with Jim? This one has a lot of feelings about that. Try he might to quell them.”

“Burning your body was one of the best memories of my life.”

“I would never have stayed as a spirit. It’s a coward’s choice anyway. I knew Jim and I would reunite in Hell one day. Just like you.”

“You always were a pathetic piece of shit.”

“Get me out of this devil’s trap and try talking to me like that, baby girl.”

“But that’s the thing, Clint. You can only feel powerful when you’re hurting people. And isn’t that just a desperate way to live? Always needing someone, needing their pain to feel good enough about yourself?”

As Clint lurched toward you in the real world, Sherlock was suddenly at 221B Baker Street. Clint’s eyes darted around. He...he didn’t take them there. Then how did they change locations in the detective's crumbling mind?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a step forward.

“Something perturbing your confidence, Mr. Riley?”

But as quickly as Sherlock took them to Baker Street, Clint jolted them to the prison infirmary. As Sherlock examined the burn mark on your hand, Clint chuckled.

“I’ve done worse. If only we were stuck in her brain. I could show you just how much.”

You shook your head and cooed to him.

“I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since you departed this earth.” You batted your eyelashes.

“He’s tormented, you know? Can logically compute why you won’t accept his love. But it’s eating away at him on the inside.”

“And you know what I realized? You’re all show.”

“If only you could see the way your love eats away at him like maggots to rotting flesh.”

“Beneath that smug cruelty is a self-loathing, pathetic creature who knows that he’s exactly the worthless idiot he fears he is.”

Sherlock tackled Clint. They flew from the prison infirmary and into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, crashing the demon’s back to the coffee table. Sherlock raised Clint by the collar of his shirt and slammed his skull to the table.

In the bunker dungeon, Sherlock’s eyes changed from black to their normal color.

“Whatever you’re doing,” he panted. “It’s working.”

The blackness eclipsed his eyes as Clint returned to you.

“You were always a lying, manipulative bitch,” the demon spat. “Desperate to say anything to save this precious meat suit.”

“Oh, husband dear. I seem to have struck a nerve. They say that it doesn’t bother you unless you believe it’s true. So you tell me, just how stupid are you?”

Sherlock punched Clint across the face. The demon sprang to his feet and charged toward him, shoving him against the front door. With a growl, Clint latched his palms to Sherlock’s throat and clamped down.

“You think yourself so smart, but you’re just a—”

“Certified genius,” Sherlock choked. “What are you?”

But Clint only gripped harder as his face contorted with rage.

“Clint.” You pouted your lip. “You always needed me to make you feel like a man. And now that I’m not by your side, what does that make you?”

Sherlock threw them into a new memory. Clint lost his grip as they fell from the sky and crashed on top of a taxi in London, indenting the evidence of their tousle on the top of the vehicle.

You and John dashed out of the taxi in a panic.

“Sherlock!” John shouted. “What the hell are you doing?!” 

“Clint?” You jerked your head backward. 

Sherlock yanked himself upright with Clint in a chokehold. The heels of Clint’s shoes scraped across the asphalt as he struggled to breathe, digging his nails into the detective’s forearms.

“Shoot him!” Sherlock ordered. 

“It doesn’t work like that, moron,” Clint choked, regaining his footing. “If it was that easy to—”

Sherlock flung Clint from his grasp just as you and John withdrew your firearms. You shot him between the eyes and John sent a bullet through his heart. But the demon only fumbled in reply. 

“If it was as simple as killing me with your brain pals, we would have run out of business with the hunters long ago.”

Panicked, Sherlock started backing away from Clint. But, outside his mind, you shrugged and leaned back in your wheelchair. 

“I’ve never had better sex in my life than with that man. Even when I was still married to your dumbass.”

...Giving Sherlock just enough leverage to throw himself into the library—your library. 

Eyes darting all around, he marched up to you as you narrowed your eyes. 

“Sherlock, what’s—”

“How do I regain control?”

“I can’t give you any information you don’t already have. You know that.”

Sherlock whipped his head around as the handle started jiggling. 

“I can’t kill him. I can’t injure him. Not significantly. Only enough to slow him down...I need, I need…”

“What did he do to you?” You tilted your head to the side. 

“EVERYTHING! He took over everything, my mind isn’t mine anymore. He’s—”

“No, Sherlock. What did he do to gain control?”

Clint yanked the door clean off its hinges and jabbed a finger at Sherlock. 

“I am going to lock you away as I make you destroy everything you care about. At first this was just about her, but now…”

Sherlock whipped his head around. But his eyes widened as you held up a key. 

A gold key. 

He snatched it from your hand and ran, unsure of where he was heading.

In the real world, you crossed your legs and twirled your hair. 

“You know…”

“I am going to carve that tattoo from your skin," Clint growled. "Then rebrand you like the product you are.”

“I have something you might be interested in.”

“Other than that beautiful neck of yours?”

“I should hope so. Otherwise you’re just a basic sexual sadist. No, husband mine. I have your killer. Gift wrapped and ready to have the life squeezed from him.”

“From what this one remembers, you and Jim aren’t getting along these days. He’s quite heartbroken over it.”

“Crowley didn’t tell you?”

His jaw ticked. You raised your eyebrows and leaned forward. 

“They’re best mates, Clint. Been working together this whole time. The little rodent who got you in here is James Moriarty himself.”

You brushed your hair over your shoulder and smirked. 

“So I’ll ask you now. Do you want to keep flirting? Or do you want revenge? Please tell me you’re smart enough to make the right call.”

Sherlock jolted his mind to the outside of a padded cell. Adjusting his stance, Clint’s eyes darted around; scowling at the open door behind him…

...With James Moriarty chained in a straight jacket and licking his lips.

“Oh, Riley. You look dreadful,” Jim cooed at the bullet holes in the demon’s body.

Clint whipped his head around to glare at Sherlock. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock slammed his heel to his chest. 

The demon stumbled backward with a grunt. And the moment he was within reach, Jim sank his teeth into his neck. 

With panicked eyes, Sherlock slammed the door closed. The click of the lock was only accompanied by the shrill cries of your dearly departed husband. 

In front of you, Sherlock gasped as he returned to the real world. 

“I don’t know how long I can keep him there.” He clenched his teeth. 

“Sherlock.” You stumbled forward. 

Collapsing in front of him, you placed your hand on his knee and looked up. 

“We can get him out,” you pleaded. “We will find a way.”

“You, you have to kill me.”

“No! Not without, even with, no. That’s not an option.”

“Even if I could hold him off for years, we don’t know for how many or when...I’m not putting you, putting you both at risk.”

Sherlock looked at John. After a hard swallow, his eyes darted to Sam.

“Winchester. You seem used to this. I need you, I need you to kill me.”

“Sam, if you TOUCH HIM, I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!” Your eyes darted to John. “John, TELL THEM!”

“We, we can pray,” John gulped. “They might, they might bring him back.”

“No! I am not praying. Not ever again! Last time I prayed I got paired with that monstrosity!”

But everyone looked upward as the dungeon started rattling to a haunting whine. The omnipresent screeching incited Sam to withdraw his angel blade. John looked at you with wide eyes and as you furiously shook your head. 

“Too, too late.” Sam’s jaw ticked.

Panic written across your face, you whipped your head around and dug your nails into Sherlock’s leg. He drew in a breath and looked upward. 

Pursing his lips, Sherlock swallowed just as you started hobbling upright.

“Yes,” he whispered. 

“Sherlock, NO!” you screamed. 

Just as his eyes burned a white-hot blue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just really pleased with how this chapter turned out. That is all.


	26. Righteous Burden

Castiel furrowed his brow as he wandered through Sherlock’s mind. But when he opened the door to his bedroom at 221B Baker Street, the angel drew in a breath and paused.

Upon the mattress with his forehead to his knees and fingers tangled in his curls, Sherlock raised his gaze. When he saw Castiel, he jolted backward and clenched his teeth.

“You’re not—”

“I apologize for my deception,” Castiel interrupted him. “But we don’t have much time. Where is the demon?”

Sherlock bore his eyes into Castiel, trying to extrapolate his usual matrix of possibilities. But mind—or was it heart?—overly exhausted, he hung his head and sucked in a breath.

With a woosh, he and Castiel were outside the cell that imprisoned Clint. The door rattled and slammed in protest.

Castiel looked from the door to Sherlock and sighed.

“I, I am sorry for the hardship I have caused you.”

“You shouldn’t be apologizing to me.”

“Yes, you are correct.”

Castiel threw open the door. The moment Clint charged through, he placed his palm to his face and extinguished the demon that haunted you in life and in death; effectively erasing Clint Riley’s existence from the very fabric of the universe.

Castiel turned to Sherlock and glanced down.

“I will, I will see you outside.”

You, Sam, and John stared at Sherlock as he went limp upon his angelic possession. 

“Balthazar?” You cautiously outstretched your hand.

“No, Agent. But he’s going to need one hell of a cocktail,” Balthazar snickered from behind you.

You flinched as you spun around and stared at him.

“Are you serious right now?” Sam deadpanned.

“Oh, certainly.” Balthazar smirked. “Have a feeling this fellow hasn’t been ridden this hard since, well…”

He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Who the fuck in inside of him?” you growled.

Balthazar stepped next to Sherlock and began healing the laceration from the demon-killing knife. You and John breathed a sigh of relief at the gentle glow of his powers.

“Castiel insisted,” Balthazar said. “He’ll be out in a moment.”

“Castiel?!” John yanked Balthazar from Sherlock by the collar of his jacket. “What the hell does he think he’s doing in—"

“The right thing, Doctor Watson. Seems like quite a burdensome obligation. But surely, you can relate.”

You whipped your head around as Castiel appeared behind Sherlock.

“I, I am so sorry. For everything I have put you through. I didn’t realize the extent that Crowley was willing to—”

“He’s the King of Hell for Christ’s sake!” John threw out his hands. “You’re really trying to tell me you just didn’t know this would end terribly? Have you never seen a thriller? He’s clearly the bad guy!”

“Well, no. Dean tried to get me to—”

“Rhetorical,” Sam grunted. “That was a rhetorical question. And Cas...really? It’s Crowley.”

You stroked the side of Sherlock’s face as he slowly returned to consciousness.

“Hey, hey,” you whispered. “I’m here. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Upon registering your face, Sherlock released an exasperated exhale and hung his head back. You looked at Castiel with wide eyes.

“Is he—”

“Dead. Very much dead. You will never be tormented by that man again.”

“Thank, thank you.” 

You swallowed and closed your eyes, fingers gently scratching Sherlock’s scalp. 

Learning from his extended time with you, John noticed the wobbling of your knees as you struggled to stay upright. He set the wheelchair behind you and you sank into it with a gasp.

“Thank you, John.”

“S’no problem.”

“Well, then.” Balthazar clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’m sure you are all just dying to know what in Heaven is going on. Er, dying might not be the most sensitive choice of words.”

“Balthazar, all I want right now is to take a nap,” you said.

The corner of his lip twitched with a chuckle.

“Of course, you do.”

He set his palms to your and Sherlock’s shoulders. With a gentle whoosh of air, you were sitting on your bed back at 221B Baker Street.

You were home.

“But Balthazar—”

“Castiel and I will be here. Nothing will touch you. Touch either of you.”

“You came back.”

He swallowed. “It, it was the right thing to do.”

With the care that could only be exhibited by a woman in love, you helped recline Sherlock across the mattress. He released a gentle whine in the process. But you nestled next to him and pressed your lips to his cheek.

“I don’t know if you heard me, but I’m not mad at you. For any of it.”

“Are you…” He closed his eyes and gulped. “Are you just saying that or…”

“I am not lying to you, Sherlock Holmes. You made the right call. I would have done the same.”

You felt his head nod as you rested yours on his shoulder. As Sherlock’s breath steadied, you glanced at Balthazar with a somber smile.

“You know I never blamed you. Is that why you stayed away all these years? Even after I—”

“We can talk after you’ve rested.”

He leaned over the side of the bed and raised his eyebrows.

“Would you like help?”

You bit your lip and nodded.

“Yes, Balthazar. I, I would like help.”

He pressed his fingers to your forehead with the utmost devotion and you were safely taken by the softness of sleep.

Finally able to rest once again.


	27. Jamie Anderson Riley

Dreams.

You had enough dreams for a lifetime.

But you furrowed your brow as you cracked your eyes open to the light of a new day. You glanced around your room.

Your room. Your flat. And it certainly wasn’t 221B Baker Street.

You gently smiled at the seven orchids that sat along your windowsill. Seven orchids and seven years since you left America. 

With a deep breath, you rested your head against the pillow and ruffled the helmet of curls in bed next to you.

“Will you sleep in your own bed tonight?”

“I had to make sure they were okay,” the boy whispered.

“You could always move them to your room?”

“No!” He bolted upright. “Your window has the exposure they need. They would get too much sunlight in my room.”

“Okay, sweet boy.” You wrapped your arm around him and kissed his forehead. “What will it be this morning?”

“You’re not cooking are you?”

“No, I am not.” You frowned. “But even you have to admit that his French toast is too dry.”

Balthazar appeared in your bedroom with an apron on and spatula in hand.

“You do know that I am a celestial being and can hear you from, well, practically anywhere!”

“She’s right.” Your son shrugged. 

“I don’t even need to eat. This is all for you two.” He pointed at you with the spatula.

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head as he disappeared into the kitchen. You patted your son’s shoulders and gestured for him to leave the comforts of your bed.

“Wash up and get dressed," you said. "We have an exciting day ahead of us." 

He dashed out of your room as his curls bounced upon his head. You smiled and stretched to accommodate the new day.

It took you years, but you were finally used to his eyes. And instead of seeing danger in the green flecks that swam amongst his irises, you now saw love.

You saw home.

In the kitchen, you sipped on a mug of coffee as Balthazar sprinkled chocolate chips in his latest of many pancake recipes.

“Not too much sugar,” you chided.

“And you are no fun.” He set a plate of banana pancakes in front of you.

You finished your gulp and set down your mug. Balthazar narrowed his eyes as you checked your mobile...again.

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re pursuing an honest career,” he droned.

“I just need an interview.” You bit your lip and shook your head. Setting down the mobile, you raised your eyebrows at him. “I’ll need you to pick up Jamie from school if the time conflicts.”

“Of course.” He beamed at you.

You gave him a deadpan expression.

“No flying.”

“But I hate driving!” he pouted. “It’s so slow and no one ever uses their bloody turn signal!”

“Welcome to the plebs, Balthazar. I can give you keys to the minivan if you keep complaining.”

“We don’t have a minivan.”

“Sure, but I’m not above stealing one just to bruise your cool factor.”

“Your son will be disappointed in you.”

You shrugged and took a bite of your pancakes. Jamie scrambled into the kitchen and hopped into his chair. When Balthazar set his breakfast in front of him, your son scowled at the stack of pancakes.

“Mummy won’t like the sugar in these.”

“You’re fine, Jamie. But since when do you call me ‘mum’?”

“The other kids made fun of me.”

Balthazar crouched next to him. “And their names are?”

“No! You’ll smite them!”

You stifled a laugh as you sipped your coffee. Balthazar popped to his feet and shrugged. 

“Or just give them a terrible tummy ache. Do you think so little of me?”

Jamie cradled his cheek in his palm and rested his elbow on the table. “Sometimes, I don’t know what to think of you.”

“Now, you have been spending far too much time with your mother, young man!”

But Jamie’s smirk turned into an ear-to-ear grin as your laptop pinged.

The special ping.

“I got a new follower!”

He dashed to the screen.

“Don’t spend too much time over there, James. We have to get going soon.”

“Alright, alright.”

You raised your eyebrows at Balthazar. 

“This is your fault. You’re the one who got him into that blog.”

“The boy needs to share his genius with the world.”

“Yes, but he’s going to burn his eyes out before he’s fifteen.”

“I’ll just patch ‘em up.” He shrugged.

You scoffed and continued to eat your breakfast. Balthazar was relieved that you were getting better about your eating habits—from the quality of the food you consumed to the regular pacing of your meals.

It took him years, after all.

“Are you excited for today?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Yeah, he’s thrilled. Gets an in-person tour of the police station now that his interests have wandered from botany to crime. Honestly, Balthazar. This is your fault.”

“But you get to see that detective who is quite fascinated with you.”

“He is not fascinated,” you grumbled before taking a sip of coffee.

“Or not fascinating?”

“You and I both know I have abhorrent taste in human men. I don’t have time to date anyway.”

“Who said you’d be dating?” He raised a brow.

“Balthazar!” You glared at him before calling to your son. “Finish up with your new botany fans. Our appointment is in half an hour.”

Balthazar clicked his tongue. “You could get fifteen of those minutes back if you’d just…”

“Balthazar,” Jamie whined as he returned to the table. “You know the rules. No flying!”

With a grin, Balthazar placed his hand to his chest and leaned forward.

“Ah, yes. You make me want to be a better man, dear James.”

“Is that considered a lie since he’s not a man?” Jamie looked at you.

You furrowed your brow. “Not a lie...but maybe a loophole?” 

Balthazar snickered and in twenty-five minutes, he placed his palms to your shoulders and you were outside Scotland Yard.

“Only because being late is worse than flying.” Jamie pointed at both of you.

“Come with us?” you asked.

“No, I can’t interrupt your da—”

“You’re coming with us.”

You linked your arm in his and took Jamie’s hand before walking in the building.

Upon seeing you, Greg raised in eyebrows and drew in a breath.

“You’re early,” he tittered. “And you brought your, er, your—”

“Manservant,” Balthazar finished.

You rolled your eyes as Balthazar outstretched his hand. 

“He’s my roommate.”

“Balthazar,” Jamie introduced them. “This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is Balthazar.”

“Greg,” he added. “Peculiar name. Practically biblical.”

“You have no idea. My parents were unbelievably religious.”

“Something tells me you aren’t.”

“A brilliant detective this one is!” Balthazar clapped his hands and pointed at Greg. “It’s quite...fascinating.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“Balthazar.” You rolled your eyes. “You’re robbing Jamie of his tour.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Right then, little man. How much do you know about evidence collection?”

“Well, blood should be refrigerated or frozen as soon as possible. If the delay is longer than 48 hours, the sample is useless.”

Greg put his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows. “That’s, um, that’s correct.”

“Jamie, where did you learn that? From that blog?”

“He, he reads the blog?” Greg pointed to your son.

“Don’t get me started.” You rolled your eyes.

“Great writing, impeccable storytelling, and riveting cases.” Balthazar grinned. “The only thing we’re missing is a video component.”

Greg crossed his arms. “Now that, I would pay to see that.”

“Not from the blog, mum,” Jamie groaned. “From the other website.”

“I really need to monitor your internet time.” You dragged your hand down your face. 

“Let me show you where we store it." Greg looked at you with hopeful eyes. "That is, if it’s okay with your mum?”

“Yes, you might as well. Or I’m sure he’ll just look it up.”

You followed Greg to the lab. Outside the door, he raised his eyebrows at you and Balthazar.

“Obviously, I can’t let you two in. As civilians and—”

“Mum, look! It’s Sherlock Holmes!”

“What?!” Greg whipped his head around. 

Sure enough, Sherlock was yanking vials of blood from their designated slots and ramming them back in. Crossing his arms, John leaned over and hissed at him.

“You’re going to break their samples.”

“Evidence collection is sloppy, at best,” Sherlock muttered in reply. 

Upon the boy’s voice, his gaze darted upward. Sherlock threw the door open and raised his eyebrows.

“Gavin! Just the man I was looking for.”

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.” Greg threw his head back.

“Where are the samples from the MacQuoid case?”

“The MacQuoid case?”

“Yes, the MacQuoid case. You know, the one you can’t solve. The blood was frozen. Clearly.”

“And just how do you know—”

Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt the detective inspector. But he jerked his head back as Jamie started speaking.

“If done improperly, freezing can be stressful to red and white blood cells. Rapid freezing makes ice crystals that push against the cell membranes and they explode!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Why...yes. Who are you?”

His gaze snapped to you and Balthazar.

“Oh, this is even better than the blog!” Balthazar rubbed his hands together.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John popped his head out from the door.

“You, you read my blog?”

Balthazar yanked John’s hand and started furiously shaking it. “Balthazar. Big fan.”

“Balthazar...that’s an odd name.”

“God-given,” you and Balthazar replied.

Withdrawing from John after an unnecessarily long handshake, Balthazar winked at you; inciting Greg to narrow his eyes and tilt his head to the side.

You crouched next to Jamie and brushed a curl from his forehead.

“How did you learn about blood cells, my love?”

“How did you learn how to create RSA encryptions and hack into bank accounts and be able to tell if a person goes to bed lonely at night from a single look?”

With wide eyes, you whipped your head around and looked at Greg.

“I don’t, I’ve never hacked into—”

“RESEARCH, MUM!” Jamie stomped his foot. “And now, experience.”

He jutted his hand toward the open door, and thus, Sherlock.

You stood upright and pressed your palm to your forehead.

“This is going just as well as I should have expected.”

“No.” Balthazar shook his head. “It’s even better.”

Mimicking your actions, Sherlock crouched in front of Jamie and narrowed his eyes.

“You never answered my question.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, sir! Please don’t arrest me.”

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. Upon the gentle chuckle that escaped his throat, John furrowed his brow as Greg leaned his head back with disbelieving eyes.

“I can’t arrest you,” Sherlock said. “Only Detective Inspector Lestrade can do that. But I would like to know your name.”

“James.”

“Middle name?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and coughed.

“And last?”

“Riley.”

With a smirk, Sherlock popped to feet.

“Riley it is then. Would you like to help me solve a murder?”

“Sherlock!” John chided.

“What?” Sherlock glanced around the room. “He’s already more useful than George.”

John looked at you and shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, we’re CLEARLY interrupting something.”

“No, we’re not,” Sherlock scoffed. “The boy wants to learn about crime. What better exposure than solving a murder? And you clearly aren’t going home with him. So this is an obvious waste of your time.”

He shrugged at Greg.

“Sherlock!” Greg glared at him before looking at you. “I promise, this wasn’t…”

“It’s okay, Greg,” you laughed. “Just how dangerous will this be, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock. And I promise your son will not face any obvious danger.”

“And the unobvious?”

“Judging by the illegal firearm you’re carrying and clear experience in the field, I think you’ll have that covered.” He winked at you, taking your son’s hand and walking away with him.

“Yes!” Jamie bounced alongside Sherlock.

John ran after them. “Sherlock!”

“You’re carrying?” Greg raised his eyebrows at you.

“What? No!” You yanked on Balthazar’s elbow. “Let’s go get the man who just kidnapped my son.”

“Oh, yes! I’m glad I stayed. Time for an adventure, Agent.”

Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes. “CIA.”

“FBI,” you lied.

He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side. “There’s always one thing.”

“Or more.”

“Tell me, Agent. Do I go to bed lonely?”

“Horrifically so.” Your eyes flickered to John. “But it’s been improving as of late.”

John crossed his arms and waited for a response. But to his surprise, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“You might be useful too.”

With Jamie’s hand still in his, Sherlock spun around and strutted out of Scotland Yard. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock also got to meet one of his favorite bloggers that day.

At 221B, you bolted upright in bed with wide eyes.

Yes, you had enough dreams for a lifetime...or perhaps, lifetimes.


End file.
